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RODEN'S CORNER 

By 

Henry Seton Merriman 

Author of “The Sowers/' etc. 

/ S, S' G • 

With Illustrations by 

T. de Thulstrup 



HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 
1898 



S 4> 


• ® © 

• • 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 


THE SOWERS. A Novel. Post 8vo, Cloth, Or- 
namental, $1 25. 

Strong, epigrammatic, and logical. — Critic, N. Y. 

WITH EDGED TOOLS. A Novel. Post 8vo, 
Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 

A remarkable novel. — N. Y. Mail and Express. 

FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER. 
A Novel. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 

A book of unusual force. — N. Y. Tribune. 

THE PHANTOM FUTURE. A Novel. 8vo, 
Cloth, $1 25. 

, . A,charming story.— N. Y. Sun. 

*..* • » c * v * * • . . 

• ■? 

, • • • • * • • * . 

•• • •«. NEVtf X'ORK? AND LONDON: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. 






Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers. 


All rights re served. 


V 



“ 'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days 
Where Destiny with men for Pieces plays: 
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays. 
And one by one back in the Closet lays." 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. In St. Jacob Straat i 

II. Work or Play? u 

III. Beginning at Home 21 

IV. A New Disciple 32 

V. Oct of Egypt 42 

VI. On the Dunes 52 

VII. Official 62 

VIII. The Seamy Side 72 

IX. A Shadow from the Past 82 

X. Deeper Water 93 

XI. In the Oude Weg 103 

XII. Suburban 113 

XIII. The Making of a Man 124 

XIV. Unsound 134 

XV. Plain Speaking 144 

XVI. Danger 154 

XVII. Plain Speaking 164 

XVIII. A Complication 173 

XIX. Danger 182 

XX. From the Past 192 

XXI. A Combined Force 202 

XXII. Gratitude 212 

XXIII. A Reinforcement 223 

XXIV. A Bright and Shining Light 233 


v 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXV. Clearing the Air 241 

XXVI. The Ultimatum 252 

XXVII. Commerce . . . 263 

XXVIII. De Mortuis 273 

XXIX. A Lesson 283 

XXX. On the Queen’s Canal . 292 

XXXI. At the Corner 303 

XXXII. Round the Corner 314 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ * that’s ’im 

“‘SIT DOWN,’ HE SAID, ‘AND WRITE”’ . . . 

“LORD FERRIBY SPOKE” 

“‘THANK YOU,’ SHE REPLIED. *1 LIKE NEWS 

PAPERS !’” 

“THE MALGAMITE-WORKERS FILED OFF” . . 

“‘I HAVE BROUGHT MR. CORNISH’” .... 
“THE HON. RUPERT PLAYED THE BANJO” . . 

“THE MAN WAS A LONG TIME IN DYING” . . 

“‘ARE YOU LIKE JOAN?’ ASKED CORNISH” . . 

“‘GENTLEMEN,’ SAID LORD FERRIBY, IMPRES 

SIVELY ” 

“A FUNERAL, CHEAP, SORDID, AND OBSCURE” . 
“‘DO YOU MIND THIS SORT OF THING?’ INQUIRED 

MARGUERITE ” 

“‘CRISIS IN THE PAPER TRADE: THE MALGAMITE 

CORNER ”* 

“ ‘ NINETY -NINE,’ HE SHOUTED. ‘NOT EIGHTY 

NINE’” ’ 

“HE WAS FOLLOWED DOWN THE STAIRS BY THT 

PAPER-MAKERS" 

“‘ANY OTHER DAY, MADAME”' 

“TONY CORNISH DREW HIS CHAIR NEARER” . . 

• • 

Vll 


Frontispiece 
Facing p. 6 
44 26 


♦ 4 


34 

46 

53 

70 

80 

86 


96 

104 

116 

126 

140 


152 

160 

166 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


“there was no trouble in their hearts” . . 

“HE LAY FOR A MOMENT OR TWO TO REGAIN HIS 

BREATH ” 

“HE SEIZED HER TWO WRISTS” 

“‘THE PLACE SMELLS OF CALAMITY’” . . . . 

“ ‘GIVE IT TO THEM, TONY !’ ” 

“LEARNING IT BY HEART” 

“MAJOR WHITE MET THE TRAVELLERS AT THE 

HAGUE STATION ” 

“ ‘IT IS THE BRAIN OF ONE MAN — ONCE MORE’” . 
“ ‘WE WANT TO LOOK AT YOUR BOOKS’” . . . 

“‘ANTHONY!’ SAID HIS LORDSHIP, AND SANK 

HEAVILY DOWN ” 

“‘SEEMS TO ME,’ SAID WHITE, 4 THAT YOUR DUTY 

IS CLEAR ENOUGH ’ ” 

“‘YOU!’ SHE CRIED. ‘MARRY YOU?”’ . . . 

“VON IIOLZEN FELL HEADLONG INTO THE CANAL” 
“‘WHAT AM I TO DO WITH THE MALGAMITERS ?’ ” 
‘ ‘BLESS YOU, MY DEARS!’ SHE CRIED” . . . . 


Facing ft- 1/3 


iSS 

198 

208 

222 

230 


“ 236 

“ 246 

“ 256 


i 4 

4 4 

t ( 

4 4 


<• 


2S2 

290 

300 

306 

322 


RODEN’S CORNER 


CHAPTER I 
IN ST. JACOB STRAAT 
“ The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life ” 

“ It is the Professor Holzen,” said the stout wom- 
an who still keeps the egg and butter shop at the 
corner of St. Jacob Straat in the Hague. She is a 
Jewess, as, indeed, are most of the denizens of St. 
Jacob Straat and its neighbor, Bezem Straat, where 
the fruit - sellers live — “it is the Professor Holzen, 
who passes this way once or twice a week. He is a 
good man.” 

“ His coat is of a good cloth,” answered her cus- 
tomer, a young man with a melancholy dark eye 
and a racial appreciation of the material things of 
this world. 

Some say that it is not wise to pass through St. 
Jacob Straat or Bezem Straat alone and after night- 
fall, for there are lurking forms within the door- 
ways, and shuffling feet may be heard in the many 
passages. During the daytime the passer-by will, 
if he looks up quickly enough, see furtive faces at 
the windows, of men, and more especially of wom- 
a i 


RODEN’S CORNER 


en, who never seem to come abroad, but pass their 
lives behind those unwashed curtains, with careful- 
ly closed windows, and in an atmosphere that may 
be faintly imagined by a glance at the wares in the 
shop below. The pavement of St. Jacob Straat is 
also pressed into the service of that queer commerce 
in old metal and damaged domestic utensils which 
seems to enable thousands of the accursed people to 
live and thrive according to their lights. It will be 
observed that the vendors, with a knowledge of hu- 
man nature doubtless bred of experience, only ex- 
pose upon the pavement articles such as bedsteads, 
stoves, and other heavy ware which may not be 
snatched up by the fleet of foot. Within the shops 
are crowded clothes and books and a thousand mis- 
cellaneous effects of small value. A hush seems to 
hang over this street. Even the children, white- 
faced and melancholy, with deep expressionless eyes 
and drooping noses, seem to have realized too soon 
the gravity of life, and rarely indulge in games. 

He whom the butter-merchant described as Pro- 
fessor Von Holzen passed quickly along the middle 
of the street, with an air suggestive of a desire to 
attract as little attention as possible. He was a 
heavy-shouldered man with a bad mouth — a greedy 
mouth, one would think — and mild eyes. The month 
was September, and the professor wore a thin black 
overcoat closely buttoned across his broad chest. 
He carried a pair of slate-colored gloves and an um- 
brella. His whole appearance bespoke learning and 
middle - class respectability. It is, after all, no tyse 
being learned without looking learned, and Profes- 
sor Von Holzen took care to dress according to his 
station in life. His attitude towards the world 


2 


IN ST. JACOB ST R A AT 

seemed to say, “Leave me alone and I will not 
trouble you,” which is, after all, as satisfactory an 
attitude as may be desired. It is, at all events, bet- 
ter than the common attitude of the many, that 
says, “ Let us exchange confidences,” which leads to 
the barter of two valueless commodities. 

The professor stopped at the door of No. 15 St. 
Jacob Straat — one of the oldest houses in this old 
street — and slowly lighted a cigar. There is a shop 
on the ground-floor of No. 15 where ancient pieces 
of stove-pipe and a few fire-irons are exposed for 
sale. Von Holzen, having pushed open the door, 
stood waiting at the foot of a narrow and grimy 
staircase. He knew that in such a shop in such a 
quarter of the town there is always a human spider 
lurking in the background, who steals out upon any 
human fly that may pause to look at the wares. 

This human spider presently appeared — a wizened 
woman with a face like that of a witch. Von Holzen 
pointed upward to the room above them. She shook 
her head regretfully. 

“ Still alive,” she said. 

And the professor turned towards the stair, but 
paused at the bottom step. “ Here,” he said, extend- 
ing his fingers. “ Some milk. How much has he 
had ?” 

“ Two jugs/’ she replied, “ and three jugs of water. 
One would say he has a fire inside him.” 

“ So he has,” said the professor, with a grim smile, 
as he went up - stairs. He ascended slowly, puffing 
out the smoke of his cigar before him with a certain 
skill, so that his progress was a form of fumigation. 
The fear of infection is the only fear to which men 
will own, and it is hard to understand why this form 

3 


RODEN’S CORNER 


of cowardice should be less despicable than others. 
Von Holzen was a German, and that nation com- 
bines courage with so deep a caution that mistaken 
persons sometimes think the former adjunct lack- 
ing. The mark of a wound across his cheek told 
that in his student days this man had, after due de- 
liberation, considered it necessary to fight. Some, 
looking at Von Holzen’s face, might wonder what 
mark the other student bore as a memento of that 
encounter. 

Von Holzen pushed open a door that stood ajar 
at the head of the stair, and went slowly into the 
room, preceded by a puff of smoke. The place was 
not full of furniture, properly speaking, although it 
was littered with many household effects which had 
no business in a bedroom. It was, indeed, used as a 
storehouse for such wares as the proprietor of the 
shop only offered to a chosen few. The atmosphere 
of the room must have been a very Tower of Babel, 
where strange foreign bacilli from all parts of the 
world rose up and wrangled in the air. 

Upon a sham Empire table, tres antique, near the 
window, stood three water- jugs and a glass of imi- 
tation Venetian work. A yellow hand stretching 
from a dark heap of bedclothes clutched the glass 
and held it out, empty, when Von Holzen came into 
the room. 

“ I have sent for milk,” said the professor, smoking 
hard, and heedful not to look too closely into the dark 
corner where the bed was situated. 

“ You are kind,” said a voice from the dark corner, 
and it was impossible to say whether its tone was 
sarcastic or grateful. 

Von Holzen looked at the empty water-jugs with 
4 


IN ST. JACOB ST R A AT 

a smile, and shrugged his shoulders. His intention 
had perhaps been a kind one. A bad mouth usually 
indicates a soft heart. 

“ It is because you have something to gain,” said 
the hollow voice from the bed. 

“ I have something to gain, but I can do without 
it,” replied Von Holzen, turning to the door and tak- 
ing a jug of milk from the hand of a child waiting 
there. “And the change,” he said, sharply. 

The child laughed cunningly, and held out two 
small copper coins of the value of half a cent. 

Von Holzen filled the tumbler and handed it to the 
sick man, who a moment later held it out empty. 

“You may have as much as you like,” said Von 
Holzen, kindly. 

“Will it keep me alive?” 

“ Nothing can do that, my friend,” answered Von 
Holzen, bluntly. He looked down at the yellow face 
peering at him from the darkness. It seemed to be 
the face of a very aged man, with eyes wide open 
and bloodshot. A thickness of speech was account- 
ed for by the absence of teeth. 

The man laughed gleefully. “All the same, I 
have lived longer than any of them,” he said. How 
many of us pride ourselves upon possessing an ad- 
vantage which others never covet ! 

“Yes,” answered Von Holzen, gravely. “How 
old are you ?” 

“ Nearly thirty-five,” was the answer. 

Von Holzen nodded and, turning on his heel, looked 
thoughtfully out of the window. The light fell full on 
his face, which would have been a fine one were the 
mouth hidden. The eyes were dark and steady. A 
high forehead looked higher by reason of a growth 

5 


RODEN’S CORNER 


of thick hair standing nearly an inch upright from 
the scalp, like the fur of a beaver in life, without curl 
or ripple. The chin was long and pointed. A face, 
this, that any would turn to look at again. One would 
think that such a man might get on in the world. 
But none may judge of another in this respect. It 
is a strange fact that intimacy with any who has 
made for himself a great name leads to the inevitable 
conclusion that he is worthy of it. 

“Wonderful !” murmured Von Holzen — “wonder- 
ful ! nearly thirty -five!” And it was hard to say 
what his thoughts really were. The only sound that 
came from the bed was the sound of drinking. 

“ And I know more about the trade than any, for 
I was brought up to it from boyhood,” said the dy- 
ing man, with an uncanny bravado. “ I did not wait 
until I was driven to it, like most.” 

“Yes, you were skilful, as I have been told.” 

“Not all skill — not all skill,” piped the metallic 
voice, indistinctly. “ There was knowledge also.” 

Von Holzen, standing with his hands in the pockets 
of his thin overcoat, shrugged his shoulders. They 
had arrived by an oft -trodden path to an ancient 
point of divergence. Presently Von Holzen turned 
and went towards the bed. The yellow hand and 
arm lay stretched out across the table, and Von Hol- 
zen’s finger softly found the pulse. 

“ You are weaker,” he said. “ It is only right that 
I should tell you.” 

The man did not answer, but lay back, breathing 
quickly. Something seemed to catch in his throat. 
Von Holzen went to the door, and furtive steps 
moved away down the dark staircase. 

“ Go,” he said, authoritatively, “ for the doctor, at 
6 


‘ SIT DOWN,’ IIE SAID, ‘ AND WRITE 



A 











































































































































































































































































IN ST. JACOB ST R A AT 


once.” Then he came back towards the bed. “ Will 
you take my price ?” he said to its occupant. “ I offer 
it to you for the last time.” 

“ A thousand gulden ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ It is too little money,” replied the dying man. 
“ Make it twelve hundred.” 

Von Holzen turned away to the window again 
thoughtfully. A sudden silence seemed to have 
fallen over the busy streets, to fill the untidy room. 
The angel of death, not for the first time, found him- 
self in company with the greed of men. 

“I will do that,” said Von Holzen at length, “as 
you are dying.” 

“Have you the money with you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah!” said the dying man, regretfully. It was 
only natural, perhaps, that he was sorry that he 
had not asked more. “ Sit down,” he said, “ and 
write.” 

Von Holzen did as he was bidden. He had also a 
pocket-book and pencil in readiness. Slowly, as if 
drawing from the depths of a long-stored memory, 
the dying man dictated a prescription in a mixture 
of dog-Latin and Dutch, which his hearer seemed to 
understand readily enough. The money, in dull- 
colored notes, lay on the table before the writer. 
The prescription was a long one, covering many 
pages of the note - book, and the particulars as to 
preparation and temperature of the various liquid 
ingredients filled up another two pages. 

“There,” said the dying man at length, “I have 
treated you fairly. I have told you all I know. Give 
me the money.” 


7 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Von Holzen crossed the room and placed the notes 
within the yellow fingers, which closed over them. 

“ Ah,” said the recipient, “ I have had more than 
that in my hand. I was rich once, and I spent it all 
in Amsterdam. Now read over your writing. I will 
treat you fairly.” 

Von Holzen stood by the window and read aloud 
from his book. 

“Yes,” said the other. “One sees that you took 
your diploma at Leyden. You have made no mis- 
take.” 

Von Holzen closed the book and replaced it in his 
pocket. His face bore no sign of exultation. His 
somewhat phlegmatic calm successfully concealed 
the fact that he had at last obtained information 
which he had long sought. A cart rattled past over 
the cobblestones, making speech inaudible for the 
moment. The man moved uneasily on the bed. Von 
Holzen went towards him and poured out more milk. 
Instead of reaching out for it, the sick man’s hand 
lay on the coverlet. The notes were tightly held by 
three fingers ; the free finger and the thumb picked 
at the counterpane. Von Holzen bent over the 
bed and examined the face. The sick man’s eyes 
were closed. Suddenly he spoke in a mumbling 
voice : 

“And now that you have what you want, you 
will go.” 

“ No,” answered Von Holzen, in a kind voice, “ I 
will not do that. I will stay with you if you do not 
want to be left alone. You are brave, at all events. 
I shall be horribly afraid when it comes to my turn 
to die.” 

“You would not be afraid if you had lived a life 
8 


IN ST. JACOB ST R A AT 

such as mine. Death cannot be worse, at all events.” 
And the man laughed contentedly enough, as one 
who, having passed through evil days, sees the end 
of them at last. 

Von Holzen made no answer. He went to the 
window and opened it, letting in the air laden with 
the clean scent of burning peat, which makes the 
atmosphere of the Hague unlike that of any other 
town ; for here is a city with the smell of a village in 
its busy streets. The German scientist stood look- 
ing out, and into the room came again that strange 
silence. It was a singular room in which to die, for 
every article in it was what is known as an antiquity; 
and although some of these relics of the past had 
been carefully manufactured in a back shop in Bezem 
Straat, others were really of ancient date. The very 
glass from which the dying man drank his milk dated 
from the glorious days of Holland when William the 
Silent pitted his Northern stubbornness and deep 
diplomacy against the fire and fanaticism of Alva. 
Many objects in the room had a story, had been in 
the daily use of hands long since vanished, could tell 
the history of half a dozen human lives lived out 
and now forgotten. The air itself smelt of age and 
mouldering memories. 

Von Holzen came towards the bed without speak- 
ing, and stood looking down. Never a talkative 
man, he was now further silenced by the shadow 
that lay over the stricken face of his companion. 
The sick man was breathing very slowly. He glanced 
at Von Holzen for a moment, and then returned to 
the dull contemplation of the opposite wall. Quite 
suddenly his breath caught. There were long pauses 
during which he seemed to cease to breathe. Then, 

9 


RODEN’S CORNER 


at length, followed a pause which merged itself gen- 
tly into eternity. 

Von Holzen waited a few minutes, and then bent 
over the bed and softly unclasped the dead man’s 
hand, taking from it the crumpled notes. Mechani- 
cally he counted them, twelve hundred gulden in all, 
and restored them to the pocket from which he had 
taken them half an hour earlier. 

He walked to the window and waited. When at 
length the district doctor arrived, Von Holzen turned 
to greet him with a stiff bow. “ I am afraid, Herr 
Doctor,” he said, in German, “ you are too late.” 


CHAPTER II 


WORK OR PLAY? 

* ‘ Get work , get work ; 

Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get ” 

Two men were driving in a hansom-cab westward 
through Cockspur Street. One, a large individual 
of a bovine placidity, wore the Queen’s uniform, and 
carried himself with a solid dignity faintly sugges- 
tive of a light-house. The other, a narrower man, 
with a keen fair face and eyes that had a habitual 
smile, wore another uniform — that of society. He 
was well dressed, and, what is rarer, carried his fine 
clothes with such assurance that their fineness seemed 
not only natural but indispensable. 

“ Sic transit the glory of this world,” he was say- 
ing. 

At this moment three men on the pavement — the 
usual men on the pavement at such times — turned 
and looked into the cab. 

“ ’Ere’s White !” cried one of them. “ White — dash 
his eyes ! Brayvo ! brayvo, White !” 

And all three raised a shout which seemed to be 
taken up vaguely in various parts of Trafalgar 
Square, and finally died away in the distance. 

“That is it,” said the young man in the frock-coat. 
“ That is the glory of this world. Listen to it pass- 


RODEN’S CORNER 


ing away. There is a policeman touching his hel- 
met. Ah, what a thing it is to be Major White — to- 
day ! To-morrow — bonjour la gloire.” 

Major White, who had dropped his single eye-glass 
a minute earlier, sat squarely looking out upon the 
world with a mild surprise. The eye from which the 
glass had fallen was even more surprised than the 
other. But this, it seemed, was a man upon whom 
the passing world made, as a rule, but a passing im- 
pression. His attitude towards it was one of dense 
tolerance. He was, in fact, one of those men who 
usually allow their neighbors to live in a fool’s para- 
dise based upon the assumption of a blindness or a 
stupidity or an indifference which may or may not 
be justified by subsequent events. 

This was, as Tony Cornish, his companion, had 
hinted, the White of the moment. Just as the reader 
may be the Jones or the Tomkins of the moment if 
his soul thirst for glory. Crime and novel-writing 
are the two broad roads to notoriety, but Major 
White had practised neither felony nor fiction. He 
had merely attended to his own and his country’s 
business in a solid, common-sense way in one of those 
obscure and tight places into which the British offi- 
cer frequently finds himself forced by the unwieldi- 
ness of the empire or the indiscretion of an efferves- 
cent press. 

That he had extricated himself and his command 
from the tight place, with much glory to themselves 
and an increased burden to the cares of the Colonial 
Office, was a fact which a grateful country was at 
this moment doing its best to recognize. That the 
authorities and those who knew him could not ex- 
plain how he had done it, any more than he himself, 
12 


WORK OR PLAY? 


was another fact which troubled him as little. Major 
White was wise in that he did not attempt to explain. 

“ That sort of thing,” he said, “ generally comes 
right in the end.” And the affair may thus be con- 
signed to that pigeon-hole of the past in which 
strange cases are filed for future reference, where 
brilliant men have failed and unlikely ones have cov- 
ered themselves with sudden and transient glory. 

There had been a review of the troops that had 
taken part in a short and satisfactory expedition of 
which, by what is usually called a lucky chance, 
White found himself the hero. He was not of the 
material of which heroes are made ; but that did not 
matter. The world will take a man and make a hero 
of him without pausing to inquire of what stuff he 
may be. Nay, more, it will take a man’s name and 
glorify it without so much as inquiring to what man- 
ner of person the name belongs. 

Tony Cornish, who went everywhere and saw 
everything, was of course present at the review, and 
knew all the best people there. He passed from car- 
riage to carriage in his smart way, saying the right 
thing to the right people in the right words, failing 
to see the wrong people quite in the best manner, 
and conscious of the fact that none could surpass 
him. Then suddenly, roused to a higher manhood 
by the tramp of steady feet, by the sight of his life- 
long friend White riding at the head of his tanned 
warriors, this social success forgot himself. He waved 
his silk hat and shouted himself hoarse, as did the 
honest plumber at his side. 

“That’s better work than yours nor mine, mister,” 
said the plumber, when the troops were gone, and 
Tony admitted, with his ready smile, that it was so. 

13 


RODEN’S CORNER 


A few minutes later Tony found Major White sol- 
emnly staring at a small crowd which as solemnly 
stared back at him, on the pavement in front of the 
Horse Guards. 

“ Here, I have a cab waiting for me,” he had said, 
and White followed him with a mildly bewildered 
patience, pushing his way gently through the crowd 
as through a herd of oxen. He made no comment, 
and if he heard sundry whispers of “That’s ’im,” 
he was not unduly elated. In the cab he sat bolt- 
upright, looking as if his tunic was too tight, as in 
all probability it was. The day was hot, and after 
a few jerks he extracted a pocket-handkerchief from 
his sleeve. “ Where are you going ?” he asked. 

“Well, I was going to Cambridge Terrace. Joan 
sent me a card this morning saying that she wanted 
to see me,” explained Tony Cornish. He was a young 
man who seemed always busy. His long, thin legs 
moved quickly, he spoke quickly, and had a rapid 
glance. There was a suggestion of superficial haste 
about him. For an idle man, he had remarkably lit- 
tle time on his hands. 

White took up his eye-glass, examined it with short- 
sighted earnestness, and screwed it solemnly into his 
eye. 

“Cambridge Terrace ?” he said, and stared in front 
of him. 

“ Yes. Have you seen the Ferribys since your glo- 
rious return to these — er — shores?” As he spoke, 
Cornish gave only half of his attention. He knew 
so many people that Piccadilly was a work of con- 
siderable effort, and it is difficult to bow gracefully 
from a hansom-cab. 

“ Can’t say I have.” 

14 


WORK OR PLAY? 


“ Then come in and see them now. We shall find 
only Joan at home, and she will not mind your fine 
feathers or the dust and circumstance of war upon 
your boots. Lady Ferriby will be sneaking about in 
the direction of Edgware Road — fish is nearly two- 
pence a pound cheaper there, I understand. My 
respected uncle is sure to be sunning his waistcoat 
in Piccadilly. Yes, there he is. Isn’t he splendid? 
How do, uncle ?” and Cornish waved a gray Suede 
glove with a gay nod. 

“How are the Ferribys?” inquired Major White, 
who belonged to the curt school. 

“Oh, they seem to be well. Uncle is full of that 
charity which at all events has its headquarters in the 
home counties. Aunt — well, aunt is saving money.” 

“And Miss Ferriby?” inquired White, looking 
straight in front of him. 

Cornish glanced quickly at his companion. 

“ Oh, Joan ?” he answered. “ She is all right. Full 
of energy, you know — all the fads in their courses.” 

“ You get ’em too.” 

“ Oh yes. I get them too. Button-holes come and 
button-holes go. Have you noticed it ? They get 
large. Neapolitan violets all over your left shoulder 
one day, and no flowers at all the week after.” Cor- 
nish spoke with a gravity befitting the subject. He 
was, it seemed, a student of human nature in his 
way. “ Of course,” he added, laying an impressive 
forefinger on White’s gold-laced cuff, “ it would never 
do if the world remained stationary.” 

“ Never,” said the Major, darkly. “ Never.” 

They were talking to pass the time. Joan Ferriby 
had come between them, as a woman is bound to 
come between two men sooner or later. Neither 
i5 


RODEN’S CORNER 


knew what the other thought of Joan Ferriby, or if 
he thought of her at all. Women, it is to be believed, 
have a pleasant way of mentioning the name of a 
man with such significance that one of their party 
changes color. When next she meets that man she 
does it again, and perhaps he sees it, and perhaps 
his vanity, always on the alert, magnifies that un- 
fortunate blush. And they are married, and live 
unhappily ever afterwards. And — let us hope there 
is a hell for gossips. But men are different in their 
procedure. They are awkward and gauche. They 
talk of newspaper matters, and on the whole there 
is less harm done. 

The hansom-cab containing these two men pulled 
up jerkily at the door of No. 9 Cambridge Terrace. 
Tony Cornish hurried to the door and rang the bell 
as if he knew it well. Major White followed him 
stiffly. They were ushered into a library on the 
ground-floor, and were there received by a young 
lady who, pen in hand, sat at a large table littered 
with newspaper-wrappers. 

“ I am addressing the Haberdashers’ Assistants,” 
she said, “ but I am very glad to see you.” 

Miss Joan Ferriby was one of those happy persons 
who never know a doubt. One must, it seems, be 
young to enjoy this nineteenth-century immunity. 
One must be pretty — it is at all events better to be 
pretty — and one must dress well. A little knowledge 
of the world, a decisive way of stating what pass at 
the moment for facts, a quick manner of speaking — 
and the rest comes tout seuL This cocksureness is in 
the atmosphere of the day, just as fainting and curls 
and an appealing helplessness were in the atmosphere 
of an earlier Victorian period. 

16 


WORK OR PLAY? 


Miss Ferriby stood, pen in hand, and laughed at 
thk confusion on the table in front of her. She was 
eminently practical, and quite without that self-con- 
sciousness which in a bygone day took the irritating 
form of coyness. Major White, with whom she shook 
hands en camarade, gazed at her solemnly. 

“ Who are the Haberdashers’ Assistants ?” he asked. 

Miss Ferriby sat down with a grave face. 

“ Oh, it is a splendid charity !” she answered. “ Tony 
will tell you all about it. It is an association of which 
the object is to induce people to give up riding on 
Saturday afternoons, and to lend their bicycles to 
haberdashers’ assistants who cannot afford to buy 
them for themselves. Papa is patron.” 

Cornish looked quickly from one to the other. He 
had always felt that Major White was not quite of 
the world in which Joan and he moved. The Major 
came into it at times, looked around him, and then 
moved away again into another world, less energetic, 
less advanced, less rapid in its changes. Cornish had 
never sought to interest his friend in sundry good 
works in which Joan, for instance, was interested, 
and which formed a delightful topic for conversation 
at tea-time. 

“ It is so splendid,” said Joan, gathering up her 
papers, “to feel that one is really doing something !” 

And she looked up into White’s face with an air 
of grave enthusiasm which made him drop his eye- 
glass. 

“ Oh yes,” he answered, rather vaguely. 

Cornish had already seated himself at the table, 
and was folding the addressed newspaper-wrappers 
over circulars printed on thick note-paper. This 
seemed a busy world into which White had stepped. 
b 1 7 


RODEN’S CORNER 


He looked rather longingly at the newspaper-wrap- 
pers and the circulars, and then lapsed into the con- 
templation of Joan’s neat fingers as she, too, fell to 
the work. 

“ We saw all about you,” said the girl, in her bright, 
decisive way, “ in the newspapers. Papa read it aloud. 
He is always reading things aloud now out of the 
Times. He thinks it is good practice for the plat- 
form, I am sure. We were all” — she paused and 
banged her energetic fist down upon a pile of folded 
circulars which seemed to require further pressure — 
“ very proud, you know, to know you.” 

“Good Lord !” ejaculated White, fervently. 

“Well, why not?” asked Miss Ferriby, looking up. 
She had expressive eyes, and they now flashed al- 
most angrily. “All English people — ” she began, 
and broke off suddenly, throwing aside the papers 
and rising quickly to her feet. Her eyes were fixed 
on White’s tunic. 

“Is that a medal?” she asked, hurrying towards 
him. “ Oh, how splendid ! Look, Tony, look ! a 
medal ! Is it ” — she paused, looking at it closely — 
“is it — the Victoria Cross?” she asked, and stood 
looking from one man to the other, her eyes glisten- 
ing with something more than excitement. 

“ Um — yes,” admitted White. 

Tony Cornish had risen to his feet also. He held 
out his hand. 

“Old chap,” he said, “I never knew that.” 

There was a pause. Tony and Joan returned to 
their circulars in a sudden silence. The Haberdash- 
ers’ Assistants seemed to have diminished in im- 
portance. 

“ By-the-bye,” said Joan Ferriby at length, “papa 
18 


WORK OR PLAY? 


wants to see you, Tony. He has a new scheme. 
Something very large and very important. The 
only question is whether it is not too large. It is 
not only in England, but in other countries. A 
great international affair. Some distressed manu- 
facturers or something. I really do not quite know. 
That Mr. Roden — you remember? — has been to see 
him about it.” 

Cornish nodded in his quick way. 

“ I remember Roden,” he answered. “ The man 
you met at Homburg. Tall dark man with a tired 
manner.” 

“ Yes,” answered Joan. “ He has been to see papa 
several times. Papa is just as busy as ever with his 
charities,” she continued, addressing White. “And 
I believe he wants you to help him in this one.” 

“ Me ?” said White, nervously. “ Oh, I’m no good. 
I should not know a haberdasher’s assistant if I saw 
him.” 

“ Oh, but this is not the Haberdashers’ Assistants,” 
laughed Joan. “ It is something much more impor- 
tant than that. The Haberdashers’ Assistants are 
only — ” 

“ Pour passer le temps,” suggested Cornish. 

“ No, of course not. But papa is really rather 
anxious about this. He says it is much the most 
important thing he has ever had to do with — and 
that is saying a good deal, you know. I wish I could 
remember the name of it, and of those poor unfort- 
unate people who make it — whatever it is. It is 
some stuff, you know, and sounds sticky. Papa has 
so many charities, and such long names to them. 
Aunt Susan says it is because he was so wild in his 
youth — but one cannot believe that. Would you 

19 


RODEN’S CORNER 


two think that papa had been wild in his youth — 
to look at him now?” 

“ Lord, no !” ejaculated White, with pious solidity, 
throwing back his shoulders with an air that seemed 
to suggest a readiness to fight any man who should 
hint at such a thing, and he waved the mere thought 
aside with a ponderous gesture of the hand. 

Joan had, however, already turned to another 
matter. She was consulting a diary bound in dark- 
blue morocco. 

“ Let me see, now,” she said. “ Papa told me to 
make an appointment with you. When can you 
come ?” 

Cornish produced a minute engagement-book, and 
these two busy people put their heads together in 
the search of a disengaged moment. Not only in 
mind, but in face and manner, they slightly resem- 
bled each other, and might, by the keen -sighted, 
have been set down at once as cousins. Both were 
fair and slightly made, both were quick and clever. 
Both faced the world with an air of energetic intel- 
ligence that bespoke their intention of making a 
mark upon it. Both were liable to be checked in a 
moment of earnest endeavor by a sudden perception 
of the humorous, which liability rendered them some- 
what superficial and apt to flit lightly from one 
thought to another. 

“ I wish I could remember the name of papa’s new 
scheme,” said Joan, as she bade them good-bye. 
When they were in the cab she ran to the door. 
“ I remember,” she cried. “ I remember now. It 
is Malgamite.” 


CHAPTER III 


BEGINNING AT HOME 

“ Charity creates much of the misery it relieves , but it does not 
relieve all the misery it creates ” 

Charity, as all the world knows, should begin at 
an “at home.” Lord Ferriby knew as well as any 
that there are men, and perhaps even women, who 
will give largely in order that their names may ap- 
pear largely and handsomely in the select subscrip- 
tion-lists. He also knew that an invitation-card in 
the present is as sure a bait as the promise of bliss 
hereafter. So Lady Ferriby announced by card (in 
an open envelope with a halfpenny stamp) that she 
should be “ at home ” to certain persons on a certain 
evening. And the good and the great flocked to 
Cambridge Terrace. The good and great are, one 
finds, socially speaking, a little mixed. 

There were present at Lady Ferriby’s, for in- 
stance, a number of ministers, some cabinet, others 
dissenting. Here, a man leaning against the wall 
wore a blue ribbon across his shirt front. There, 
another, looking bigger and more self-confident, 
had no shirt front at all. His was the easy distinc- 
tion of unsuitable clothes. 

“ Ha ! Miss Ferriby, glad to see you,” he said, as 
he entered, holding out a hand which had the usual 
outward signs of industrial honesty. 

21 


RODEN’S CORNER 

Joan shook the hand frankly, and its possessor 
passed on. 

“ Is that the gas-man ?” inquired Major White, 
gravely. He had been standing beside her ever 
since his arrival, seeking, it seemed, the protection 
of one who understood these social functions. It is 
to be presumed that the Major was less bewildered 
than he looked. 

“ Hush !” And Joan said something hurriedly in 
White’s large ear. “ Everybody has him,” she con- 
cluded, and the explanation brought a certain calm 
into the mildly surprised eye behind the eye-glass. 
White recognized the phrase and its conclusive con- 
temporary weight. 

“ Here’s a flat-backed man !” he exclaimed, with a 
ring of relief. “ Been drilled, this man. Gad ! he’s 
proud !” added the Major, as the new-comer passed 
Joan with rather a cold bow. 

“Oh, that’s the detective,” explained Joan. “So 
many people, you know; and so — well — mixed. 
Everybody has them. Here’s Tony — at last.” 

Tony Cornish was indeed making his way through 
the crowd towards them. He shook hands with a 
bishop as he elbowed a path across the room, and did 
it with the pious face of a self-respecting curate. 
The next minute he was prodding a sporting baronet 
in the ribs at the precise moment when that noble- 
man reached the point of his little story, and on the 
precise rib where he expected to be prodded. It is 
always wise to do the expected. 

At the sight of Tony Cornish, Joan’s face became 
grave, and she turned towards him with her little 
frown of pre-occupation, such as one might expect 
to find upon the face of a woman concerned in the 
22 


BEGINNING AT HOME 


great movements of the day. But before Tony 
reached her the expression changed to a very femi- 
nine and even old-fashioned one of annoyance. 

“ Oh, here comes mother !” she said, looking beyond 
Cornish, who was indeed being pursued by a wizened 
little old lady. Lady Ferriby, it seemed, was not 
enjoying herself. She glanced suspiciously from 
one to another, as if she was seeking a friend with- 
out any great hope of finding one. Perhaps, like 
many another, she looked upon the world from that 
point of view. 

Cornish hurried up and shook hands. 

“ Plenty of people,” he said. 

“Oh yes,” answered Joan, earnestly. “It only 
shows that there is, after all, a great deal of good in 
human nature, that in such a movement as this rich 
and poor, great and small, are all equal.” 

Cornish nodded in his quick sympathetic way, 
accepting as we all accept the social statements of 
the day, which are oft repeated and never weighed. 
Then he turned to White and tapped that soldier’s 
arm emphatically. 

“Way to get on nowadays,” he said, “ is to be 
prominent in some great movement for benefiting 
mankind.” 

Joan heard the words, and turning, looked at Cor- 
nish with a momentary doubt. 

“And I mean to get on in the world, my dear Joan,” 
he said, with a gravity which quite altered his keen, 
fair face. It passed off instantly, as if swept away by 
the ready smile which came again. A close observer 
might have begun to wonder under which mask lay 
the real Tony Cornish. Major White looked stolidly at 
his friend. His face, on the contrary, never changed. 

23 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Lady Ferriby joined them at this moment — a 
silent, querulous -looking woman in black silk and 
priceless lace, who, despite her white hair and wrinkled 
face, yet wore her clothes with that carefulness which 
commands respect from high and low alike. The 
world was afraid of Lady Ferriby, and had little to 
say to her. It turned aside, as a rule, when she 
approached. And when she had passed on with her 
suspicious glance, her bent and shaking head, it 
whispered that there walked a woman with a roman- 
tic past. It is, moreover, to be hoped that the 
younger portion of Lady Ferriby’s world took heed 
of this catlike, lonely woman, and recognized the 
melancholy fact that it is unwise to form a romantic 
attachment in the days of one’s youth. 

“ Tony,” said her ladyship, “they have eaten all the 
sandwiches.” 

And there was something .in her voice, in her 
manner of touching Tony Cornish’s arm with her 
fan, that suggested in a far-off, cold way that this 
social butterfly had reached one of the still strings 
of her heart. Who knows ? There may have been, 
in those dim days when Lady Ferriby had played 
her part in the romantic story which all hinted at 
and none knew, another such as Tony Cornish — 
gay and debonair, careless, reckless, and yet endowed 
with the power of making some poor woman happy. 

“ My dear aunt,” replied Cornish, with a levity with 
which none other ever dared to treat her, “ the benevo- 
lent are always greedy. And each additional virtue 
— temperance, loving-kindness, humility — only serves 
to dull the sense of humor and add to the appetite. 
Give them biscuits, aunt.” 

And offering her his arm, he good-naturedly led 
24 


BEGINNING AT HOME 


her to the refreshment - rooms to investigate the 
matter. As she passed through the crowded rooms 
she glanced from face to face with her sharp, seeking 
look. She cordially disliked all these people. And 
their principal crime was that they ate and drank. 
For Lady Ferriby was a miser. 

At the upper end of the room a low platform served 
as a safe retreat for sleepy chaperons on such occa- 
sions as the annual Ferriby ball. To-night there 
were no chaperons. Is not Charity the safest as well 
as the most lenient of these ? And does not her wing 
cover a multitude of indiscretions ? 

Upon this platform there now appeared, amid 
palms and chrysanthemums, a long, rotund man like 
a bolster. He held a paper in his hand and wore a 
platform smile. His attitude was that of one who 
hesitated to demand silence from so well - bred a 
throng. His high, narrow forehead shone in the 
light of the candelabra. This was Lord Ferriby — a 
man whose best friend did his best for him in de- 
scribing him as well - meaning. He gave a cough 
which had sufficient significance in it to command a 
momentary quiet. During the silence a well-dressed 
parson stood on tiptoe and whispered something in 
Lord Ferriby’s ear. The suggestion, whatever it 
may have been, was negatived by the speaker on 
receipt of a warning shake of the head from Joan. 

“ Er — ladies and gentlemen,” said Lord Ferriby, 
and gained the necessary silence. 

“Er — you all know the purpose of our meeting 
here to-night. You all know that Lady Ferriby 
and I are much honored by your presence here to- 
night. And — er — I am sure — ” 

He did not, however, appear to be quite sure, for 

25 


RODEN’S CORNER 


he consulted his paper, and the colonial bishop near 
the yellow chrysanthemums said, “ Hear, hear !” 

“ — and I am sure that we are, one and all, actu- 
ated by a burning desire to relieve the terrible dis- 
tress which has been going on unknown to us in our 
very midst.” 

“He has missed out half a page,” said Joan to 
Major White, who somehow found himself at her 
side again. 

“ This is no place, and we have at the moment no 
time, to go into the details of the manufacture of 
Malgamite. Suffice it to say that such a — er — com- 
position exists, and that it is a necessity in the man- 
ufacture of paper. Now, ladies and gentlemen, the 
painful fact has been brought to light by my friend 
Mr. Roden — ” 

His lordship paused and looked round with a half- 
fledged bow, but failed to find Roden. 

“ — by — er — Mr. Roden that the manufacture of 
Malgamite is one of the deadliest of industries. In 
fact, the makers of Malgamite, and fortunately they 
are comparatively few in number, stricken as they 
are by a corroding disease, occupy in our midst the 
— er — place of the lepers of the Bible.” 

Here Lord Ferriby bowed affably to the bishop, 
as if to say, “And that is where you come in.” 

“We — er — live in an age,” went on Lord Ferriby 
— and the practical Joan nodded her head to indicate 
that he was on the right track now — “ when charity 
is no longer a matter of sentiment, but rather a very 
practical and forcible power in the world. We do 
not ask your assistance in a vague and visionary 
crusade against suffering. We ask you to help 
us in the development of a definite scheme for 
26 





“LORD FERRIBY SPOKE 
































































































f 



















































. 













BEGINNING AT HOME 

the amelioration of the condition of our fellow- 
beings.” 

Lord Ferriby spoke, not with the ease of long 
practice, but with the assurance of one accustomed 
to being heard with patience. He now waited for 
the applause to die away. 

“ Who put him up to it ?” Major White asked 
Joan. 

“ Mr. Roden wrote the speech, and I taught it to 
papa,” was the answer. 

At this moment Cornish hurried up in his busy 
way. Indeed, these people seemed to have little time 
on their hands. They belonged to a generation which 
is much addicted to unnecessary haste. 

“ Seen Roden ?” he asked, addressing his question 
to Joan and her companion jointly. 

“ Never in my life,” answered Major White. “ Is 
he worth seeing ?” 

But Cornish hurried away again. Lord Ferriby 
was still speaking, but he seemed to have lost the ear 
of his audience, and had lapsed into generalities. A 
few who were near the platform listened attentive- 
ly enough. Some, who hoped that they were to be 
asked to speak, applauded hurriedly and finally 
whenever the speaker paused to take breath. 

The world is full of people who will not give their 
money, but offer readily enough what they call their 
“ time ” to a good cause. Lord Ferriby was lavish 
with his “time,” and liked to pass it in hearing the 
sound of his own voice. Every social circle has its 
talkers, who hang upon each other’s periods in ex- 
pectance of the moment when they can successfully 
push in their own word. Lord Ferriby, looking round 
upon faces well known to him, saw half a dozen men 

2 7 


RODEN’S CORNER 


who spoke upon all occasions with a sublime indif- 
ference to the fact that they knew nothing of the 
subject in hand. With the least encouragement, 
any one of them would have stepped on to the plat- 
form bubbling over with eloquence. Lord Ferriby 
was quite clever enough to perceive the danger. He 
must go on talking until Roden was found. Had 
not the pushing parson already intimated in a whis- 
per that he had a few earnest thoughts in his mind 
which he would be glad to get off? Lord Ferriby 
knew those earnest thoughts, and their inevitable 
tendency to send the audience to the refreshment- 
room, where, as Lady Ferriby’s husband, he suspect- 
ed poverty in the land. 

“Is not Mr. Cornish going to speak?” a young 
lady eagerly inquired of Joan. She was a young lady 
who wore spectacles and scorned a fringe — a danger- 
ous course of conduct for any young woman to fol- 
low. But she made up for natural and physical de- 
ficiencies by an excess of that zeal which Talleyrand 
deplored. 

“ I think not,” answered Joan. “ He never speaks 
in public, you know.” 

“ I wonder why ?” said the young lady, sharply and 
rather angrily. 

Joan shrugged her shoulders and laughed. She 
sometimes wondered why, herself, but Tony had 
never satisfied her curiosity. The young lady 
moved away and talked to others of the same mat- 
ter. There were quite a number of people in the 
room who wanted to know why Tony Cornish did 
not speak, and wished he would. The way to rule 
the world is to make it want something, and keep 
it wanting. 


28 


BEGINNING AT HOME 


“I make so bold as to hope,” Lord Ferriby was say- 
ing, “that when sufficient publicity has been given 
to our scheme we shall be able to raise the necessary 
funds. In the fulness of this hope I have ventured 
to jot down the names of certain gentlemen who 
have been kind enough to assume the trusteeship. I 
propose, therefore, that the trustees of the Malga- 
mite Fund shall be — er — myself — ” 

Like a practised speaker, Lord Ferriby paused for 
the applause which duly followed. And certain el- 
derly gentlemen who had been young when Marma- 
duke Ferriby was young looked with much interest 
at the pictures on the wall. That Lord Ferriby 
should assume the directorship of a great charity was 
to send that charity on its way rejoicing. He stood 
smiling benevolently and condescendingly down upon 
the faces turned towards him, and rejoiced inwardly 
over these glorious obsequies of a wild and deplora- 
ble past. 

“ Mr. Anthony Cornish,” he read out, and applause 
made itself heard again. 

“ Major White.” 

And the listeners turned round and stared at that 
hero, whom they discovered calmly and stolidly sur- 
prised behind his eye-glass, his broad, tanned face 
surmounting a shirt front of abnormal width. 

“ Herr Von Holzen.” 

No one seemed to know Herr Von Holzen, or to 
care much whether he existed or not. 

“And — my — er — friend — the originator of this 
great scheme — the man whom we all look up to as 
the benefactor of a most miserable class of men — 
Mr. Percy Roden.” 

Lord Ferriby meant the listeners to applaud, and 
29 


RODEN’S CORNER 


they did so, although they had never heard the name 
before. He folded the paper held in his hand, and 
indicated by his manner that he had for the moment 
nothing more to say. From his point of vantage he 
scanned the whole length of the large room, evident- 
ly seeking some one. Anthony Cornish had been the 
second name mentioned, and the majority hoped 
that it was he who was to speak next. They antici- 
pated that he, at all events, would be lively, and in 
addition to this recommendation there hovered round 
his name that mysterious charm which is in itself a 
subtle form of notoriety. People said of Tony Cor- 
nish that he would get on in the world; and upon this 
slender ladder he had attained social success. 

But Cornish was not in the room, and after wait- 
ing a few moments Lord Ferriby came down from the 
platform and joined some of the groups of persons 
in the large room. For already the audience was 
breaking up into small parties, and the majority, it 
is to be feared, were by now talking of other matters. 
In these days we cannot afford to give sufficient time 
to any one object to do that object or ourselves any 
lasting good. 

Presently there was a stir at the door, and Cornish 
entered the room, followed leisurely by a tired-look- 
ing man, for whom the idlers near the doorway 
seemed instinctively to make way. This man was 
tall, square-shouldered, loose of limb. He had smooth 
dark hair, and carried his head thrown rather back 
from the neck. His eyes were dark, and the fact 
that a considerable line of white was visible beneath 
the pupil imparted to his whole being an air of phys- 
ical delicacy suggestive of a constant feeling of 
fatigue. 


30 


BEGINNING AT HOME 


“ Who is this ?” asked Major White, aroused to a 
sense of stolid curiosity which few of his fellow-men 
had the power of awakening. 

“ Oh, that,” said Joan, looking towards the door — 
“ that is Mr. Percy Roden.” 


CHAPTER IV 


A TSTEW DISCIPLE 

Pour elre heureux , il ne faut avoir rien cl oublier 


There is in the atmosphere of the Hotel of the 
Vieux Doelen at the Hague something as old world, 
as quiet and peaceful, as there is in the very name of 
this historic house. The stairs are softly carpeted, 
the great rooms are hung with tapestry, and other- 
wise decorated in a massive and somewhat gloomy 
style, little affected in the newer caravanserais. The 
house itself, more than three hundred years old, is of 
dark red brick with facings of stone, long since worn 
by wind and weather. The windows are enormous, 
and would appear abnormal in any other city but 
this. The Hotel of the Old Shooting Gallery stands 
on the Toornoifeld, and the unobservant may pass it 
by without distinguishing it from the private houses 
on either side. This, indeed, is not so much a house 
of hasty rest for the passing traveller as it is a halt- 
ing-place for that great army which is ever moving 
quietly on and on through the cities of the Old 
World — the corps diplomatique — the army whose 
greatest victory is peace. The traveller passing a 
night or two at the hotel may well be faintly sur- 
prised at the atmosphere in which he finds himself. 
If he be what is called a practical man, he will prob- 
32 


A NEW DISCIPLE 


ably shake his head forebodingly over the prospects 
of the proprietor. There seems, indeed, to be a sin- 
gular dearth of visitors. The winding stairs are 
nearly always deserted. The salon is empty. There 
are no sounds of life, no trunks in the hall, no idlers 
at the door. And yet at the hour of the table d’hote 
quiet doors are opened, and quiet men emerge from 
rooms that seemed before to be uninhabited. They 
are mostly smooth - haired men, with a pensive re- 
serve of manner, a certain polished cosmopolitan air, 
and the inevitable frock-coat. They bow gravely to 
each other, and seat themselves at separate tables. 
As often as not they produce books or newspapers, 
and read during the solemn meal. It is as well to 
watch these men and take note of them. Many of 
them are gray-headed. No one of them is young. 
But they are beginners, mere apprentices, at a very 
difficult trade, and in the days to come they will 
have the making of the history of Europe. For these 
men are attaches and secretaries of embassies. They 
will talk to you in almost any European tongue you 
may select, but they are not communicative persons. 

During the winter — the gay season at the Hague — 
there is usually a certain number of residents in the 
hotel. At the time with which we are dealing Mrs. 
Vansittart was staying there, alone with her maid. 
Mrs. Vansittart was in the habit of dining at the 
small table near the stove — a gorgeous erection of 
steel and brass which stands nearly in the centre of 
the smaller dining-room used in winter. Mrs. Van- 
sittart seemed, moreover, to be quite at home in the 
hotel, and exchanged bows with a few of the gentle- 
men of the corps diplomatique. She was a graceful, 
dark-haired woman, with deep brown eyes that looked 
C 33 


RODEN’S CORNER 


upon the world without much interest. This was 
not, one felt, a woman to lavish her attention or her 
thoughts upon a toy spaniel, as do so many ladies 
travelling alone with their maids in Continental 
hotels. Perhaps this woman of thirty-five years or 
so preferred to be frankly bored, rather than set up 
for herself a shivering four-legged object in life. Per- 
haps she was not bored at all. One never knows. 
The young gentlemen from the embassies glanced at 
her over their books or their newspapers, and won- 
dered who and what she might be. They knew, at 
all events, that she took no interest in those affairs 
of the great world which rumble on night and day 
without rest, with spasmodic bursts of clumsy haste, 
and with a never-failing possibility of surprise in their 
movements. This was no political woman, whatever 
else she might be. She would talk in quite a number 
of languages of such matters as the opera, a new 
book, or an old picture, and would then relapse again 
into a sort of waiting silence. At thirty-five it is 
perhaps not well to wait too patiently for those things 
that make a woman’s life worth living. Mrs. Van- 
sittart had not the air, however, of one who would 
wait indefinitely. 

When Mr. Percy Roden arrived at the hotel he 
was assigned, at the hour of table d’hote, a small 
table between those occupied respectively by Mrs. 
Vansittart and the secretary of the Belgian Embassy. 
Some subtle sense conveyed to Percy Roden that he 
had aroused Mrs. Vansittart’s interest — the sense 
called vanity, perhaps, which conveys so much to 
young men and so much that is erroneous. On the 
second evening, therefore, when he had returned 
from a busy day in the neighborhood of Scheven- 
34 





A NEW DISCIPLE 


ingen, Roden half looked for the bow which was half 
accorded to him. That evening Mrs. Vansittart 
spoke to the waiter in English, which was obviously 
her native language, and Roden overheard. After 
dinner Mrs. Vansittart lingered in the salon , and a 
woman, had such been present, would have perceived 
that she made it easy for Roden to pause in passing 
and offer her his English newspaper, which had ar- 
rived by the evening post. The subtle is so often 
the obvious that to be unobservant is often a social 
duty. 

“ Thank you,” she replied. “ I like newspapers. 
Although I have not been in England for years, I 
still take an interest in the affairs of my country.” 

Her manner was easy and natural, without that 
taint of a too sudden familiarity which is character- 
istic of the present generation. We are apt to allow 
ourselves to feel too much at home. 

“ I, on the contrary,” replied Roden, with his tired 
air, “ have never till now been out of England or 
English-speaking colonies.” 

His voice had a hollow sound. Although he was 
tall and broad-shouldered, his presence had no sug- 
gestion of strength. Mrs. Vansittart looked at him 
quickly as she took the newspaper from his hand. 
She had clever, speculative eyes, and was obvious- 
ly wondering why he had gone to the colonies and 
why he had returned thence. So many sail to those 
distant havens of the unsuccessful under one cloud 
and return under another that it seems wiser to re- 
main stationary and snatch what passing sunshine 
there may be. Roden had not a colonial manner. 
He was well dressed. He was, in fact, the sort of 
man who would pass in any society. And it is proba- 
35 


RODEN'S CORNER 


ble that Mrs. Vansittart summed him up in her quick 
mind with perfect success. Despite our clothes, de- 
spite our airs and graces, we mostly appear to be 
exactly what we are. Mrs. Vansittart, who knew 
the world and men, did not need to be informed by 
Percy Roden that he was unacquainted with the 
Continent. Comparing him with the other men 
passing through the salon to their rooms or their 
club, it became apparent that he had one sort of 
stiffness which they had not, and lacked another sort 
of stiffness which grows upon those who live and 
take their meals in public places. Mrs. Vansittart 
could probably have made a fair guess at the sort of 
education Percy Roden had received. For a man 
carries his school mark through his life with him. 

“Ah," she said, taking the newspaper and glancing 
at it with just sufficient interest to prolong the con- 
versation, “ then you do not know the Hague. It is 
a place that grows upon one. It is one of the social 
capitals of the world. Vienna, St. Petersburg, Paris, 
are the others. Madrid, Berlin, New York, are — 
nowhere.” 

She laughed, bowed with a little half-foreign gest- 
ure of thanks, and left him — left him, moreover, with 
the desire to see more of her. It seemed that she 
knew the secret of that other worldling, Tony Cor- 
nish, that the way to rule men is to make them want 
something and keep them wanting. As Roden 
passed through the hall he paused and entered into 
conversation with the hall porter. During the 
course of this talk he made some small inquiries 
respecting Mrs. Vansittart. That lady had no need 
to make inquiries respecting Roden. She was trav- 
elling with her maid. 


36 


A NEW DISCIPLE 


“ I see,” she said, when she saw him again the 
next day after dinner in the salon, “ that your great 
philanthropic scheme is now an established fact. I 
have taken a great interest in its progress, and of 
course know the names of some who are associated 
with you in it.” 

Roden laughed indifferently, well pleased to be 
recognized. His notoriety was new enough and 
narrow enough to please him still. There is no 
man so much at the mercy of his own vanity as he 
who enjoys a limited notoriety. 

“Yes,” he answered, “we have got it into shape. 
Do you know Lord Ferriby ?” 

“No,” answered Mrs. Vansittart, slowly, “I have 
not that pleasure.” 

“ Oh, Ferriby is a good enough fellow,” said Roden, 
kindly ; and Mrs. Vansittart gave a little nod as she 
looked at him. Roden had drawn forward a chair, 
and she sat down, after a moment’s hesitation, in 
front of the open fire. 

“So I have always heard,” she answered, “and a 
great philanthropist.” 

“Oh — yes.” Roden paused and took a chair. 
“ Oh yes ; but Tony Cornish is our right-hand man. 
The people seem to place greater faith in him than 
they do in Lord Ferriby. When it is Cornish who 
asks, they give readily enough. He is businesslike 
and quick, and that always tells in the long-run.” 

Percy Roden seemed disposed to be communica- 
tive, and Mrs. Vansittart’s attitude was distinctly 
encouraging. She leaned sideways on the arm of 
her chair and looked at her companion with specu- 
lation in her intelligent eyes. She was perhaps 
reflecting that this was not the sort of man one 
37 


RODEN’S CORNER 


usually finds engaged in philanthropic enterprise. 
It is likely that her thoughts were of this nature, 
and were, as thoughts so often are, transmitted si- 
lently to her companion’s mind, for he proceeded, 
unasked, to explain. 

“ It is not, properly speaking, a charity, you know,” 
he said. “ It is more in the nature of a trade union. 
This is a practical age, Mrs. Vansittart, and it is 
necessary that charity should keep pace with the 
march of progress and be self-supporting.” 

There was a faint suggestion of glibness in his 
manner. It was probable that he had made use of 
the same arguments before. 

“ And who else is associated with you in this great 
enterprise ?” asked the lady, keeping him, with the 
cleverness of her sex, upon the subject in which he 
was obviously deeply interested. The cleverest 
women usually treat men thus, and they generally 
know what subject interests a man most — namely, 
himself. 

“ Herr Von Holzen is the most important person,” 
replied Roden 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Vansittart, looking into the fire, 
“ and who is Herr Von Holzen ?” 

Roden paused for a moment, and the lady, looking 
half indifferently into the fire, noticed the hesita- 
tion. 

“ Oh, he is a scientist — a professor at one of the 
universities over here, I believe. At all events, he is 
a very clever fellow — analytical chemist and all that, 
you know. It is he who has made the discovery upon 
which we are working. He has always been inter- 
ested in Malgamite, and he has now found out how 
it may be manufactured without injury to the work- 

38 


A NEW DISCIPLE 


ers. Malgamite, you understand, is an essential in 
the manufacture of paper, and the world will never 
require less paper than it does now, but more ; look 
at the tons that pass through the post-offices daily. 
Paper-making is one of the great industries of the 
world, and without Malgamite paper cannot be made 
at a profit to-day.” 

Roden seemed to have his subject at his fingers’ 
ends, and if he spoke without enthusiasm the reason 
was probably that he had so often said the same 
thing before. 

“I am much interested,” said Mrs. Vansittart, in 
her half - foreign way, which was rather pleasing. 
“Tell me more about it.” 

“ The Malgamite-makers,” went on Roden, willing- 
ly enough, “are fortunately but few in number, and 
they are experts. They are to be found in twos and 
threes in manufacturing cities — Amsterdam, Goth- 
enburg, Leith, New York, and even Barcelona. Of 
course there are a number in England. Our scheme, 
briefly, is to collect these men together, to build a 
manufactory and houses for them — to form them, 
in fact, into a close corporation, and then supply the 
world with Malgamite.” 

“ It is a great scheme, Mr. Roden.” 

“ Yes, it is a great scheme ; and it is, I think, laid 
upon the right lines. These people require to be 
saved from themselves. As they now exist, they are 
well paid. They are engaged in a deadly industry, 
and know it. There is nothing more demoralizing 
to human nature than this knowledge. They have 
a short and what they take to be a merry life.” The 
tired-looking man paused and spread out his hands 
in a gesture of careless scorn. He had almost allow- 

39 


RODEN’S CORNER 


ed himself to lapse into enthusiasm. “ There is no 
reason,” he went on, “ why they should not become 
a happy and respectable community. The first thing 
we shall have to teach them is that their industry 
is comparatively harmless, as it will undoubtedly be 
with Von Holzen’s new process. The rest will, I think, 
come naturally. Altered circumstances will alter 
the people themselves.” 

“And where do you intend to build this manufac- 
tory?” inquired Mrs. Vansittart, to whom was vouch- 
safed that rare knowledge of the fine line that is to 
be drawn between a kindly interest and a vulgar curi- 
osity. The two are nearer than is usually suspected. 

“ Here in Holland,” was the reply. “I have almost 
decided on the spot — on the dunes to the north of 
Scheveningen. That is why I am staying at the 
Hague. There are many reasons why this coast is 
suitable. We shall be in touch with the canal sys- 
tem, and we shall have a direct outfall to the sea for 
our refuse, which is necessary. I shall have to live 
in the Hague — my sister and I.” 

“Ah! you have a sister?” said Mrs. Vansittart, 
turning in her chair and looking at him. A woman’s 
interest in a man’s undertaking is invariably centred 
upon that point where another woman comes into it. 

“ Yes.” 

“Unmarried ?” 

“ Yes, Dorothy is unmarried.” 

Mrs. Vansittart gave several quick little nods of 
the head. 

“ I am wondering two things,” she said — “whether 
she is like you, and whether she is interested in this 
scheme. But I am wondering more than that. Is 
she pretty, Mr. Roden ?” 


40 


A NEW DISCIPLE 


“Yes, I think she is pretty.” 

“ I am glad of that. I like girls to be pretty. It 
makes their lives so much more interesting — to the 
onlooker, bien entendu, but not to themselves. The 
happiest women I have known have been the plain 
ones. But perhaps your sister will be pretty and 
happy too. That would be so nice, and so very rare, 
Mr. Roden. I shall look forward to making her ac- 
quaintance. I live in the Hague, you know. I have 
a house in Park Straat, and I am only at this hotel 
while the painters are in possession. You will al- 
low me to call on your sister when she joins you ?” 

“We shall be most gratified,” said Roden. 

Mrs. Vansittart had risen with a little glance at 
the clock, and her companion rose also. 

“ I am greatly interested in your scheme,” she 
said. “ Much more than I can tell you. It is so re- 
freshing to find charity in such close connection 
with practical common-sense. I think you are doing 
a great work, Mr. Roden.” 

“ I do what I can,” he replied, with a bow. 

“And Mr. Von Holzen,” inquired Mrs. Vansittart, 
stopping for a moment as she moved towards the 
doorway, which is large and hung with curtains— 
“does Mr. Von Holzen work from purely philan- 
thropic motives also ?” 

“Well — yes, I think so. Though of course he, like 
myself, will be paid a salary. Perhaps, however, he 
is more interested in Malgamite from a scientific 
point of view.” 

“ Ah, yes, from a scientific point of view, of course. 
Good-night, Mr. Roden.” 

And she left him. 


CHAPTER V 


OUT OF EGYPT 

“ C7n esclave est moins celui qn'on vend que celui qui se donne ” 

- d 

sea-fog was blowing across the smooth surface 
of the Maas where that river is broad and shallow, 
and a steamer anchored in the channel gave forth 
a low grunt of warning from time to time, while a 
boy with mittened hands rang the bell hung high on 
the forecastle. The wind blowing from the south- 
east drove before it the endless fog which hummed 
through the rigging, and hung there in little icicles 
that pointed to leeward. On the bridge of the steam- 
er, looking like a huge woollen barrel surmounted 
by a comforter and a cap with ear-flaps, the Dutch 
pilot stood philosophically at his post. Beside him 
the captain, mindful of the company’s time-tables, 
walked the deck with a quick, impatient step. The 
fog was blowing past at the rate of four or five miles 
an hour, but the supply of it, emanating from the 
low lands bordering the Scheldt, seemed to be inex- 
haustible. This fog, indeed, blows across Holland 
during the whole winter. 

The steamer’s deck was covered with ice, over 
which sand had been strewn. The passengers were 
below in the warm saloon. Only the blue-faced boy 
at the bell on the forecastle was on deck. At times 

42 


OUT OF EGYPT 


one of the watch hurried from the galley to the fore- 
castle with a pannikin of steaming coffee. The ves- 
sel had been anchored since daybreak, and the sound 
of other bells and other whistles far and near told 
that she was not alone in these waters. The distant 
boom of a steamer creeping cautiously down from 
Rotterdam seemed to promise that farther inland 
the fog was thinner. A silence, broken only by the 
whisper of the wind through the rigging, reigned 
over all, so that men listened with anticipations of 
relief for the sound of answering bells. The sky at 
length grew a little lighter, and presently gaps made 
their appearance in the fog, allowing peeps over the 
green and still water. 

The captain and the pilot exchanged a few words — 
the very shortest of consultations. They had been 
on the bridge together all night, and had said all 
that there was to be said about wind and weather. 
The captain gave a sharp order in his gruff voice, 
and, as if by magic, the watch on deck appeared from 
all sides. The chief officer emerged from his cabin 
beneath the wheel-house and went forward into the 
fog, turning up his collar. Presently the jerk and 
clink of the steam-winch told that the anchor was 
being got home. The fog had been humored for six 
hours, and the time had now come to move on 
through thick or thin. What should Berlin, St. Pe- 
tersburg, Vienna, know of a fog on the Maas ? and 
there were mails and passengers on board this steam- 
er. The clink of the winch brought one of these on 
deck. Within the high collar of his fur coat, beneath 
the brim of a felt hat pulled well down, the keen, 
fair face of Mr. Anthony Cornish came peering up 
the gangway to the upper bridge. Pie exchanged a 
43 


RODEN’S CORNER 


nod with the captain and the pilot ; for with these 
he had already been in conversation at the break- 
fast table. He took his station on the bridge behind 
them, with his hands deep in the pockets of his loose 
coat, a cigarette between his lips. A shout from 
the forecastle soon intimated that the anchor was 
up, and the captain gave the order to the boy at the 
engine-room telegraph. Through the fog the forms 
of the three men on the lookout on the forecastle 
were dimly discernible. The great steamer crept 
cautiously forward into the fog. The second mate, 
with his hand on the whistle- line, blared out his 
warning note every half -minute. A dim shadow 
loomed up on the port side, which presently took 
the form of a great steamer at anchor, and was left 
behind with a ringing bell and a booming whistle. 
Another shadow turned out to be a pilot-cutter, and 
the Dutch pilot exchanged a shouted consultation 
with an invisible person whom he called “Thou,” and 
who replied to the imperfectly heard questions with 
the words, “ South East.” This shadow also was left 
behind, faintly calling, “South East,” “South East.” 

“ It is a white buoy that I seek,” said the pilot, 
turning to those on the bridge behind him, his jolly 
red face puckered with anxiety. And quite suddenly 
the second officer, a bright red Scotchman with little 
blue eyes like tempered gimlets, threw out a red 
hand and pointing finger. 

“ There she rides !” he cried. “ There she rides ! 
Staarboarrrd your helium !” 

And a full thirty seconds elapsed before any other 
eyes could pierce that gloom and perceive a great 
white buoy bowing solemnly towards the steamer 
like a courtier bidding a sovereign welcome. One 
44 


OUT OF EGYPT 


voice had seemed to be gradually dominating the 
noise of the many warning whistles that sounded 
ahead, astern, and all around the steamer. This 
voice, like that of a strong man knowing his own 
mind in an assembly of excited and unstable coun- 
sellors, had long been raised with a persistence which 
at last seemed to command all others, and the steam- 
er moved steadily towards it ; for it was the siren 
fog-horn at the pier-head. At one moment it seemed 
to be quite near, and at the next far away ; for the 
ears, unaided by the eyes, can but imperfectly focus 
sound or measure its distance. 

“At last !” said the captain, suddenly, the anxiety 
wiped away from his face as if by magic. “At last ! 
I hear the cranes a-working on the quay.” 

The purser had come to the bridge, and now ap- 
proached Cornish. “Are you going to land them 
at the Hook, or take them on to Rotterdam, sir ?” 
he asked. 

“ Oh, land 'em at the Hook,” replied Cornish, read- 
ily. “ Have you fed them ?” 

“ Yes, sir. They have had their breakfast — such 
as it is. Poor eaters, I call them, sir.” 

“ Yes,” said Cornish, turning and looking at his 
burly interlocutor. “ Yes, I do not suppose they 
eat much.” 

The purser shrugged his shoulders and turned his 
attention to other affairs, thoughtfully. The little 
beacon at the head of the pier had suddenly loomed 
out of the fog not fifty yards away — a very needle 
in a pottle of hay which the cunning of the pilot 
had found. 

“ Who are they, at any rate — these hundred and 
twenty ghosts of men ?” asked the sailor, abruptly. 

45 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“They are Malgamite- workers,” answered Cor- 
nish, cheerily. “ And I am going to make men of 
them — not ghosts.” 

The purser looked at him, laughed in rather a 
puzzled way, and quitted the bridge. Cornish re- 
mained there, taking a quick, intelligent interest in 
the manoeuvres by which the great steamer was being 
brought alongside the quay. He seemed to have 
already forgotten the hundred and twenty men in 
the second-class cabin. His touch was indeed hope- 
lessly light. He understood how it was that the 
steamer was made to obey, but he could not him- 
self have brought her alongside. Cornish was a 
true son of a generation which understands much 
of many things, but not quite sufficient of any one. 

He stood at the upper end of the gangway as the 
Malgamite-workers filed off — a sorry crew, narrow- 
chested, hollow - eyed, with that half - hopeless, half- 
reckless air that tells of a close familiarity with dis- 
ease and death. He nodded to them airily as they 
passed him. Some of them took the trouble to an- 
swer his salutation, others seemed indifferent. A few 
glanced at him with a sort of dull wonder. And 
indeed this man was not of the material of which 
great philanthropists are made. He was cheerful 
and heedless, shallow and superficial. 

“ Get ’em into the train,” he said to an official at 
his side ; and then, seeing that he had not been un- 
derstood, gave the order glibly enough in another 
language. 

The ill-clad travellers shuffled up the gangway and 
through the custom-house. Few seemed to take an 
interest in their surroundings. They exchanged no 
comments, but walked side by side in silence — dumb 
46 



yy 


“THE malgamite- workers filed off 

































































OUT OF EGYPT 


and driven animals. Some of them bore signs of 
disease. A few stumbled as they went. One or two 
were half blind, with groping hands. That they were 
of different nationalities was plain enough. Here 
a Jew from Vienna, with the fear of the Judenhetze 
in his eyes, followed on the heels of a tow - headed 
giant from Stockholm. A cunning cockney touched 
his hat as he passed, and rather ostentatiously turned 
to help a white-haired little Italian over the inequal- 
ities of the gangway. One thing only they had in 
common — their deadly industry. One shadow lay 
over them all — the shadow of death. A momentary 
gravity passed across Cornish’s face. These men 
were as far removed from him as the crawling beetle 
is from the butterfly. Who shall say, however, that 
the butterfly sees nothing but the flowers ? 

As they passed him some of them edged away with 
a dull humility, for fear their poor garments should 
touch his fur coat. One, carrying a bird-cage, half 
paused, with a sort of pride, that Cornish might ob- 
tain a fuller view of a depressed canary. The Mal- 
gamite-workers of this winter’s morning on the pier 
of the Hook were not the interesting industrials of 
Lady Ferriby’s drawing-room. There, their lives 
had been spoken of as short and merry. Here, the 
merriment was scarcely perceptible. The mystery 
of the dangerous industries is one of those myste- 
ries of human nature which cannot be explained by 
even the youngest of novelists. That dangerous in- 
dustries exist, we all know and deplore. That the 
supply of men and women ready to take employment 
in such industries is practically inexhaustible, is a 
fact worth at least a moment’s attention. 

Cornish made the necessary arrangements with the 
47 


RODEN’S CORNER 


railway officials, and carefully counted his charges, 
who were already seated in the carriages reserved 
for them. He must at all events be allowed the 
virtues of a generation which is eminently practical, 
and capable of overcoming the small difficulties of 
every-day life. He was quick to decide and prompt 
to act. 

Then he seated himself in a carriage alone, with a 
sigh of relief at the thought that in a few days he 
would be back in London. His responsibility ended 
at the Hague, where he was to hand over the Mal- 
gamite-workers to the care of Roden and Von Hol- 
zen. They were rather a depressing set of men ; 
and Holland, as seen from the carriage window — a 
snow-clad plain intersected by frozen ditches and 
canals — was no more enlivening. The temperature 
was deadly cold ; the dull houses were rime-covered 
and forbidding. The Malgamite-makers had been 
gathered together from all parts of the world in a 
home specially organized for them in London. A 
second detachment were awaiting orders at Ham- 
burg. But the principal workers were these now 
placed under Cornish’s care. 

During the days of their arrival, when they had 
to be met and housed and cared for, the visionary 
part of this great scheme had slowly faded before a 
somewhat grim reality. Joan Ferriby had found 
the Malgamite - workers less picturesque than she 
had anticipated. 

“ If they only washed,” she had confided to Major 
White, “ I am sure they would be easier to deal with.” 
And after talking French very vivaciously and bold- 
ly with a man from Lyons, she hurried back to the 
West End, and to the numerous engagements which 
48 


OUT OF EGYPT 


naturally take up much of one’s time when Lent is 
approaching, and dilatory hospitality is stirred up 
by the startling collapse of the Epiphany Sundays. 

Here, however, were the Malgamite-workers, and 
they had to be dealt with. It was not quite what 
many had anticipated, perhaps, and Cornish was 
looking forward with undisguised pleasure to the 
moment when he could rid himself of these persons 
whom Joan had gayly designated as “rather grub- 
some,” and whom he frankly recognized as sordid 
and uninteresting. He did not even look, as Joan 
had looked, to the wives and children who were to 
follow as likely to prove more picturesque and en- 
gaging. 

The train made its way cautiously over the fog- 
ridden plain, and Cornish shivered as he looked out 
of the window. “ Schiedam,” the porters called. 
This, Schiedam? A mere village, and yet the 
name was so familiar. The world seemed suddenly 
to have grown small and sordid. A few other sta- 
tions with historic names, and then the Hague. 

Cornish quitted his carriage and found himself 
shaking hands with Roden, who was awaiting him 
on the platform, clad in a heavy fur coat. Roden 
looked clever and capable — cleverer and more capa- 
ble than Cornish had even suspected— and the or- 
ganization seemed perfect. The reserved carriages 
had been in readiness at the Hook. The officials 
were prepared. 

“ I have omnibuses and carts for them and their 
luggage,” were the first words that Roden spoke. 

Cornish instinctively placed himself under Roden’s 
orders. The man had risen immensely in his estima- 
tion since the arrival in London of the first Malga- 
d 49 


RODEN’S CORNER 


mite-maker. The grim reality of the one had en- 
hanced the importance of the other. Cornish had 
been engaged in so many charities pour rire that the 
seriousness of this undertaking was apt to exagger- 
ate itself in his mind — if, indeed, the seriousness of 
anything dwelt there at all. 

“I counted them all over at the Hook,” he said. 
“One hundred and twenty — pretty average scoun- 
drels.” 

“Yes; they are not much to look at,” answered 
Roden. And the two men stood side by side watch- 
ing the Malgamite- workers, who now quitted the 
train and stood huddled together in a dull apathy 
on the roomy platform. 

“ But you will soon get them into shape, no doubt,” 
said Cornish, with characteristic optimism. He was 
essentially of a class which has always some one at 
hand to whom to relegate tasks that it could do 
more effectually and more quickly for itself. The 
secret of human happiness is to be dependent upon 
as few human beings as possible. 

“Oh yes! We shall soon get them into shape — 
the sea air and all that, you know.” 

Roden looked at his proteges with large sad eyes, 
in which there was alike no enthusiasm and no spark 
of human kindness. Cornish wondered vaguely 
what he was thinking about. The thoughts were 
usually tinged with a certain pessimism, and lacked 
entirely the blindness of an enthusiasm by which 
men are urged to endeavor great things for the 
good of the masses, and to make, as far as a practi- 
cal human perception may discern, huge and hideous 
mistakes. 

“Von Holzen is down below,” said Roden, at 
5o 


OUT OF EGYPT 


length. “As soon as he comes up we will draft 
them off in batches of ten, and pack them into the 
omnibuses. The luggage can follow. Ah, here 
comes Von Holzen. You don’t know him, do you ?” 

“ No ; I don’t know him.” 

They both went forward to meet a man of medium 
height with square shoulders and a still, clean-shaven 
face. Otto Von Holzen raised his hat, and remained 
bareheaded while he shook hands. 

“ The introduction is unnecessary,” he said. “ We 
have worked together for many months — you on the 
other side of the North Sea and I on this. And 
now we have, at all events, something to show for 
our work.” 

He had a quick, foreign manner, with a kind smile 
and a certain vivacity. This was a different sort 
of man to Roden — quicker to understand others ; 
capable of greater good and possibly of greater evil. 
He glanced at Cornish, nodded sympathetically, 
and then turnec^ to look at the Malgamite-makers. 
These, standing in a group on the platform, holding 
in their hands their poor belongings, returned the 
gaze with interest. The train which had brought 
them steamed out of the station, leaving the Malga- 
mite-makers gazing in a dull wonder at the three 
men into whose hands they had committed their 
lives. 


CHAPTER VI 


ON THE DUNES 
“ L' indifference est le sommeil du cceur ” 

The village of Scheveningen, as many know, is 
built on the sand-dunes, and only sheltered from the 
ocean by a sea-wall. A new Scheveningen has sprung 
up on this sea-wall — a mere terrace of red-brick 
houses, already faded and weather-worn, which stare 
forlornly at the shallow sea. Inland, except where 
building enterprise has constructed roads and built 
villas, are sand-dunes. To the south, beyond the 
light-house, are sand-dunes. To tae north, more 
especially and most emphatically, are sand-dunes as 
far as the eye may see. This tract of country is a 
very desert, where thin maritime grasses are shaken 
by the wind ; where suggestive spars lie bleaching ; 
where the sand, driven before the breeze like snow, 
travels to and fro through all the ages. 

On the afternoon with which we are dealing, the 
dunes presented as forlorn an appearance as it is pos- 
sible in one’s gloomiest moments to conceive. The 
fog had, indeed, lifted a little, but a fine rain now 
drove before the wind, freezing as it fell, so that the 
earth was covered by a thin sheet of ice. The short 
January day was drawing to its close. 

To the north of the water-works, three hundred 
52 


ON THE DUNES 


yards away from that solitary erection, the curious 
may find to-day a number of low buildings cluster- 
ing round a water-tower. These buildings are of 
wood, with roofs of corrugated iron, and when they 
were newly constructed, not so many years ago, pre- 
sented a gay enough appearance, with their green 
shutters and ornamental eaves. The whole was en- 
closed in a fence of corrugated iron, and approached 
by a road not too well constructed on its sandy bed. 

“We do not want the place to become the object 
of an excursion for tourists to the Hague,” said Roden 
to Cornish, as they approached the Malgamite-works 
in a closed carriage. 

Cornish looked out of the window and made no 
remark. So far as he could see on all sides there was 
nothing but sand-hills and gray grass. The road 
was a narrow one, and led only to the little cluster 
of houses within the fence. It was a lonely spot, cut 
off from all communication with the outer world. 
Men might pass within a hundred yards and never 
know that the Malgamite-works existed. The car- 
riage passed through the high gateway into the en- 
closure. There were a number of cottages, two long, 
low buildings, and the water-tower. 

“ You see,” said Roden, “ we have plenty of room 
to increase our accommodation when there is need 
of it. But we must go slowly and feel our way. It 
would never do to fail. We have accommodation 
here for a couple of hundred workers and their fam- 
ilies ; but in time we shall have five hundred of them 
in here — all the Malgamite-workers in the world.” 

He broke off with a laugh, and looked round him. 
There was a ring in his voice, suggestive of a keen 
excitement. Could Percy Roden, after all, be an en- 

53 


RODEN S CORNER 


thusiast ? Cornish glanced at him uneasily. In Cor- 
nish’s world sincere enthusiasm was so rare that it 
was never well received. 

Roden’s manner changed again, however, and he 
explained the plan of the little village with his usual 
half-indifferent air. 

“ These two buildings are the factories,” he said. 
“In them three hundred men can work at once. 
There, we shall build sheds for the storage of the raw 
material. Here, we shall erect a warehouse. But I 
do not anticipate that we shall ever have much Mal- 
gamite on our hands. We shall turn over our money 
very quickly.” 

Cornish listened with the respectful attention 
which business details receive nowadays from those 
whose birth and education unfit them for such pur- 
suits. It was obvious that he did not fully under- 
stand the terms of which Roden made use ; but he 
tapped his smart boot with his cane, gave a quick 
nod of the head, and looked intelligently around him. 
He had a certain respect for Percy Roden, while 
that philanthropist did not perhaps appear quite at 
his best in his business moments. 

“And do you — and that foreign individual, Mr. 
Von Holzen — live inside this — zareba?” he asked. 

“ No ; Von Holzen lives at present in Scheveningen 
in a hotel there. And I have taken a small villa on 
the dunes, with my sister to keep house for me.” 

“ Ah ! I did not know you had a sister,” said 
Cornish, still looking about him with intelligent 
ignorance. “ Does she take an interest in the Mal- 
gamite scheme?” 

“Only so far as it affects me,” replied Roden. 
“ She is a good sister to me. The house is between 
54 


ON THE DUNES 


the water-works and the steam-tram station. We 
will call in on our way back, if you care to.” 

“I should like nothing better,” replied Cornish, 
conventionally, and they continued their inspection 
of the little colony. The arrangements were as 
simple as they were effective. Either Roden or Von 
Holzen certainly possessed the genius of organiza- 
tion. In one of the cottages a cold collation was set 
out on two long tables. There was a choice of wines, 
and notably some bottles of champagne on a side 
table. 

“ For the journalists,” explained Roden. “ I have 
a number of them coming this afternoon to witness 
the arrival of the first batch of Malgamite-makers. 
There is nothing like judicious advertisement. We 
have invited a number of newspaper correspondents. 
We give them champagne and pay their expenses. 
If you will be a little friendly, they would like it 
immensely. They, of course, know who you are. 
A little flattery, you understand.” 

“Flattery and champagne,” laughed Cornish — 
“the two principal ingredients of popularity.” 

“ I have here a number of photographs,” continued 
Roden, “taken by a good man in the neighborhood. 
He has thrown in a view of the sea at the back, you 
see. It is not there ; but he has put in the sky and 
sea from another plate, he tells me, to make a good 
picture of it. We shall send them to the principal 
illustrated papers.” 

“And I suppose,” said Cornish, with his gay laugh, 
“ that some of the journalists will throw in back- 
ground also.” 

“ Of course,” answered Roden, gravely. “ And the 
sentimentalists will be satisfied. The sentimentalists 
55 


RODEN'S CORNER 


never stop at providing necessaries ; they want to 
pamper. It will please them immensely to think 
that the Malgamite-makers, who have been collected 
from the slums of the world, have a sea-view and 
every modern luxury.” 

“We must humor them,” said Cornish, practically. 
“We should not get far without them.” 

At this moment the sound of wheels made them 
both turn towards the entrance. It was an omnibus 
— the best omnibus with the finest horses — which 
brought the journalists. These gentlemen now 
descended from the vehicle and came towards the 
cottage, where Cornish and Roden awaited them. 
They were what is euphemistically called a little 
mixed. Some were too well dressed, others too 
badly. But all carried themselves with an air that 
bespoke a consciousness of greatness not unmingled 
with good-fellowship. The leader, a stout man, 
shook hands affably with Cornish, who assumed his 
best and most gracious manner. 

“ Aha ! here we are !” he said, rubbing his hands 
together and looking at the champagne. 

Then somehow Cornish came to the front and 
Roden retired into the background. It was Cornish 
who opened the champagne and poured it into their 
glasses. It was Cornish who made the best jokes, 
and laughed the loudest at the journalistic quips 
fired off by his companions. Cornish seemed to 
understand the guests better than did Roden, who 
was inclined to be stiff towards them. Those who 
are assured of their position are not always thinking 
about it. Men who stand much upon their dignity 
have not, as a rule, much else to stand upon. 

“ Here’s to you, sir !” cried the stout newspaper 
56 


ON THE DUNES 


man, with upraised glass and a heart full of cham- 
pagne. “Here’s to you — whoever you are. And 
now to business. Perhaps you’ll trot us round the 
works.” 

This Cornish did with much success. He then 
stood beside the correspondents while the Malgamite- 
workers descended from the omnibus and took pos- 
session of their new quarters. He provided the 
journalists with photographs and a short printed 
account of the Malgamite trade, which had been 
prepared by Von Holzen. It was finally Cornish 
who packed them into the omnibus in high good- 
humor and sent them back to the Hague. 

“ Do not forget the sentiment,” he called out after 
them. “ Remember it is a charity.” 

The Malgamite -workers were left to the care of 
Von Holzen, who had made all necessary prepara- 
tions for their reception. 

“ You are a cleverer man than I thought you,” said 
Roden to Cornish, as they walked over the dunes to- 
gether in the dusk towards the Rodens’ house. And 
it was difficult to say whether Roden was pleased or 
not. He did not speak much during the walk, and 
was evidently wrapped in deep thought. 

Cornish was light and inconsequent as usual. “We 
shall soon raise more money,” he said. “We shall 
have Malgamite balls, and Malgamite bazars, Malga- 
mite balloon-ascents, if that is not flying too high.” 

The Villa des Dunes stands, as its name implies, 
among the sand-hills, facing south and west. It is 
upon an elevation, and therefore enjoys a view of 
the sea, and, inland, of the spires of the Hague. The 
garden is an old one, and there are quiet nooks in it 
where the trees have grown to a quite respectable 
57 


RODEN’S CORNER 


stature. Holland is so essentially a tidy country 
that nothing old or moss-grown is tolerated. One 
wonders where all the rubbish of the centuries has 
been hidden ; for the ruins have been decently cleared 
away, and cities that teem with historical interest 
seem, with a few exceptions, to have been built last 
year. The garden of the Villa des Dunes was there- 
fore more remarkable for cleanliness than luxuri- 
ance. The house itself was uninteresting, and re- 
sembled a thousand others on the coast in that it 
was more comfortable than it looked. A suggestion 
of warmth and lamp-light filtered through the drawn 
curtains. 

Roden led the way into the house, admitting him- 
self with a latch-key. “ Dorothy,” he cried as soon 
as the door was closed behind them — the two tall 
men in their heavy coats almost filled the little hall 
— “ Dorothy, where are you ?” 

The atmosphere of the house — that subtle odor 
which is characteristic of all dwellings — was pleasant. 
One felt that there were flowers in the rooms, and 
that tea was in course of preparation. 

The door on the left - hand side of the hall was 
opened, and a woman appeared there. She was es- 
sentially small — a little upright figure with bright 
brown hair, a good complexion, and gay, sparkling 
eyes. 

“I have brought Mr. Cornish,” explained Roden. 
“We are frozen, and want some tea.” 

Dorothy Roden came forward and shook hands 
with Cornish. She looked up at him, taking him all 
in, in one quick intuitive glance, from his smooth 
head to his neat boots. Then her glance returned to 
his lips. She knew where to seek the outward signs. 

58 



“ ‘ I HAVE BROUGHT MR. CORNISH 


> M 


* 












ON THE DUNES 


“ It is horribly cold,” she said, with frank conven- 
tionality. One cannot always be original and spark- 
ling, and it is wiser not to try too persistently. She 
turned and re-entered the drawing-room, with Cor- 
nish following her. The room itself was prettily fur- 
nished in the Dutch fashion, and there were flowers. 
Dorothy Roden’s manner was that of a woman, no 
longer in her first girlhood, who had seen men and 
cities. She was better educated than her brother ; 
she was probably cleverer. She had, at all events, the 
subtle air of self-restraint that marks those women 
whose lives are passed in the society of a man men- 
tally inferior to themselves. Of course all women 
are in a sense doomed to this — according to their 
own thinking. 

“ Percy said that he would probably bring you in 
to tea,” said Miss Roden, “and that probably you 
would be tired out.” 

“ Thanks, I am not tired. We had a good passage, 
and everything has run as smoothly. Do you take 
an active interest in the Malgamite scheme ?” 

Miss Roden paused in the action of pouring out 
tea, and looked across at her interlocutor. “ Not an 
active one,” she answered, with a momentary gravity ; 
and, after a minute, glanced at Cornish’s face again. 

“ It is going to be a big thing,” he said, enthusias- 
tically. “My cousin Joan Ferriby is working hard 
at it in London. You do not know her, I suppose ?” 

“I was at school with Joan,” replied Miss Roden, 
with her soft laugh. “And we took a school-girl 
oath to write to each other every week when we 
parted. We kept it up — for a fortnight.” 

Cornish’s smooth face betrayed no surprise, al- 
though he had concluded that Miss Roden was years 
59 


RODEN’S CORNER 


older than Joan. “Perhaps,” he said, “you do not 
take an interest in the same things as Joan. In what 
may be called New Things — not clothes, I mean. In 
factory-girls’ feather clubs, for instance, or haber- 
dashers’ assistants, or women’s rights, or anything 
like that.” 

“ No ; I am not clever enough for anything like 
that. I am profoundly ignorant about woman’s 
rights, and do not even know what I want, or ought 
to want.” 

Roden, who had approached the table, laughed, and, 
taking his tea, went and sat down near the fire. He, 
at all events, was tired, and looked worn — as if his 
responsibilities were already beginning to weigh 
upon him. Cornish, too, had come forward, and, cup 
in hand, stood looking down at Miss Roden with a 
doubtful air. 

“ I always distrust women who say that,” he said. 
“ One naturally suspects them of having got what 
they want by some underhand means — and of having 
abandoned the rest of their sex. This is an age of 
amalgamation : is not that so, Roden ?” 

He turned and sat down near to Dorothy. Roden, 
thus appealed to, made some necessary remark, and 
then lapsed into a thoughtful silence. It seemed 
that Cornish was quite capable, however, of carrying 
on the conversation by himself. 

“ Do you know nothing about your wrongs, either?” 
he asked Dorothy. 

“ Nothing,” she replied. “ I have not even the wit 
to know that I have any.” 

“ Good heavens !” he exclaimed. “ No wonder Joan 
ceased writing to you ! You are a most suspicious 
case, Miss Roden. Of course you have righted your 
60 


ON THE DUNES 


wrongs — sub rosa — and leave other women to manage 
their own affairs. That is what is called a blackleg. 
You are untrue to the Union. In these days we all 
belong to some cause or another. We cannot help it, 
and recent legislation adds daily to the difficulty. 
We must either be rich or poor. At present the only 
way to live at peace with one’s poorer neighbors is 
to submit to a certain amount of robbery. But some 
day the classes must combine to make a stand against 
the masses. The masses are already combined. We 
must either be a man or a woman. Some day the 
men must combine against the women, who are al- 
ready united behind a vociferous vanguard. May I 
have some more tea ?” 

“ I am afraid I have been left behind in the gen- 
eral advance,” said Miss Roden, taking his cup. 

“ I am afraid so. Of course I don’t know where 
we are advancing to — ” 

He paused and drank the tea slowly. 

“ No one knows that,” he added. 

“ Probably to a point where we shall all suddenly 
begin fighting for ourselves again.” 

“ That is possible,” he said, gravely, setting down 
his cup. “ And now I must find my way back to the 
Hague. Good-night.” 

“ He is clever,” said Dorothy, when Roden re- 
turned after having shown Cornish the way. 

“ Yes,” answered Roden, without enthusiasm. 

“ You do not seem to be pleased at the thought,” 
she said, carelessly. 

“ oh — it will be all right. If his cleverness runs 
in the right direction.” 


CHAPTER VII 


OFFICIAL 

“ One may be so much a man of the world as to be nothing in the 
world ” 

Political Economy will some day have to recog- 
nize Philanthropy as a possible, nay, a certain, stum- 
bling-block in the world’s progress towards that mil- 
lennium when Supply and Demand shall sit down 
together in peace. Charity is certainly sowing seed 
into the ridges of time which will bear startling 
fruit in the future. For Charity does not hesitate to 
close up an industry or interfere with a trade that 
supplies thousands with their daily bread. Thus the 
Malgamite scheme so glibly inaugurated by Lord 
Ferriby in his drawing-room bore fruit within a week 
in a quarter to which probably few concerned had 
ever thought of casting an eye. The price of a high- 
class tinted paper fell in all the markets of the world. 
This paper could only be manufactured with a large 
addition of Malgamite to its other components. In 
what may be called the prospectus of the Malgamite 
scheme it was stated that this great charity was in- 
augurated for the purpose of relieving the distress of 
the Malgamiters — one of the industrial scandals of 
the day — by enabling these afflicted men to make 
their deadly product at a cheaper rate and without 
62 


OFFICIAL 


danger to themselves. This prospectus naturally 
came to the hands of those most concerned, namely 
the manufacturers of colored papers and the brokers 
who supply those manufacturers with their raw ma- 
terial. 

Thus Lord Ferriby, beaming benignantly from a 
bower of chrysanthemums on a certain evening one 
winter not so many years ago, set rolling a small 
stone upon a steep hill. So, in fact, wags the world ; 
and none of us may know when the echo of a care- 
less word will cease vibrating in the hearts of some 
that hear. 

The Malgamite trade was what is called a close 
one — that is to say that this product passed out into 
the world through the hands of a few brokers, and 
these brokers were powerless, in the face of Lord Fer- 
riby’s announcement, to prevent the price of Mal- 
gamite from falling. As this fell, so fell the prices 
of the many kinds of paper which could not be man- 
ufactured without it. Thus indirectly Lord Ferriby, 
with that obtuseness which very often finds itself in 
company with a highly developed philanthropy, 
touched the daily lives of thousands and thousands 
of people. And he did not know it. And Tony 
Cornish knew it not. And Joan and the subscribers 
never dreamed or thought of such a thing. 

The paper market became what is called sensitive 
— that is to say, prices rose and fell suddenly without 
apparent reason. Some men made money and others 
lost it. Presently, however — that is to say, in the 
month of March — two months after Tony Cornish had 
safely conveyed his Malgamite-makers to their new 
home on the sand-dunes of Scheveningen — the paper 
markets of the world began to settle down again, and 

63 


RODEN’S CORNER 


steadier prices ruled. This could be traced — as all 
commercial changes may be traced — to the original 
flow at one of the fountain-heads of supply and de- 
mand. It arose from the simple fact that a broker 
in London had bought some of the new Malgamite 
— the Scheveningen Malgamite — and had issued it to 
his clients, who said that it was good. He had, more- 
over, bought it cheaper. In a couple of days all the 
world — all the world concerned in the matter — knew 
of it. Such is commerce at the end of the century. 

And Cornish, casually looking in at the little office 
of the Malgamite charity, where a German clerk rec- 
ommended by Herr Von Holzen kept the books of 
the scheme, found his table littered with telegrams. 
Tony Cornish had the reputation of being clever. 
He was, as a matter of fact, intelligent. The world 
nearly always mistakes intelligence for cleverness, 
just as it nearly always mistakes laughter for happi- 
ness. He was, however, clever enough to have found 
out during the last two months that the Malgamite 
scheme was a bigger thing than either he or his un- 
cle had ever imagined. 

Many questions had arisen during those two months 
of Cornish’s honorary secretaryship of the charity 
which he had been unable to answer, and which he 
had been obliged to refer to Roden and Von Holzen. 
These had replied readily, and the matter as solved 
by them seemed simple enough. But each question 
seemed to have side issues — indeed, the whole scheme 
appeared suddenly to bristle with side issues, and 
Tony Cornish began to find himself getting really 
interested in something at last. In fact, he had given 
up more than one big shooting-party in the autumn. 

The telegrams were not alone upon his office- 
64 


OFFICIAL 


table. There were letters as well. It was a nice 
little office, furnished by Joan with a certain origi- 
nality which made it different from any other office 
in Westminster. It had, moreover, the great recom- 
mendation of being above a Ladies’ Tea Association, 
so that afternoon tea could be easily procured. The 
German clerk quite counted on receiving three half- 
holidays a week, and Joan brought her friends to 
tea, and her mother to chaperon. These little tea- 
parties became quite notorious, and there was ques- 
tion of a cottage piano, which was finally abandoned 
in favor of a banjo. It happened to be a wire-puzzle 
winter, and Cornish had the best collection of rings 
on impossible wire mazes and glass beads strung 
upon intertwisted hooks in Westminster, if not, in- 
deed, in the whole of London. Then, of course, there 
were the committee meetings — that is to say, the 
meeting of the lady committees of the bazaar, and 
ball sub-committees. The wire puzzles and the as- 
sociation tea were an immense feature of these. 

Cornish was quite accustomed to finding a num- 
ber of letters awaiting him, and had been compelled 
to buy a waste - paper basket of abnormal dimen- 
sions — so many moribund charities cast envious eyes 
upon the Malgamite scheme, and wondered how it 
was done, and, on the chance of it, offered Cornish 
honorable honorary posts. But the telegrams had 
been few and nearly all from Roden. There was a 
letter from Roden this morning. 

“ Dear Cornish ” (he wrote), — “ You will probably re- 
ceive applications from Malgamite-workers in different parts 
of the world for permission to enter our works ; accept them 
all, and arrange for their enlistment as soon as possible. 

" Yours in haste, P. R." 

65 


E 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Percy Roden was usually in haste, and wrote a bad 
letter in a beautiful writing. 

Cornish turned to the telegrams. They were one 
and all applications from Malgamite-makers — from 
Venice to Valparaiso — to be enrolled in the Sche- 
veningen group. He was still reading them when 
Lord Ferriby came into the little office. His lord- 
ship was wearing a new fancy waistcoat. It was the 
month of April — the month assuredly of fancy waist- 
coats throughout all nature. Lord Ferriby was, as 
usual, rather pleased with himself. He had walked 
down Piccadilly with great effect, and a bishop had 
bowed to him, recognizing, in a sense, a lay-bishop. 

“ What have you got there, Tony ?” he asked, 
affably, laying his smart walking-stick on an inlaid 
bureau, which was supposed to be his, and was al- 
ways closed, and had nothing in it. 

“Telegrams,” answered Cornish, “from Malga- 
mite-makers, who want to join the works at Sche- 
veningen. Seventy-six of them. I don’t quite un- 
derstand this business.” 

“ Neither do I,” admitted Lord Ferriby, in a voice 
which clearly indicated that if he only took the 
trouble he could understand anything. “ But I 
fancy it is one of the biggest things in charity that 
has ever been started.” 

In the company of men, and especially of young 
men, Lord Ferriby allowed himself a little license in 
speech. He at times almost verged on the slangy, 
which is, of course, quite correct and de hcnit ton , 
and he did not want to be taken for an old buffer, 
as were his contemporaries. Therefore hefcalled him- 
self an old buffer whenever he could. Qui s' accuse 
s'excuse. 


66 


OFFICIAL 


“Of course,” he added, “we must take the poor 
fellows.” 

Without comment, Cornish handed him Roden’s 
letter, and while Lord Ferriby read it, employed him- 
self in making out a list of names and addresses of 
the applicants. Cornish was, in fact, rising to the 
occasion. In other circumstances Anthony Cornish 
might with favorable influence — say that of a Scot- 
tish head clerk — have been made into what is called 
a good business man. Without any training what- 
ever, and with an education which consisted only of 
a smattering of the classics and a rigid code of honor, 
he usually perceived what it was wise to do. Some 
people call this genius ; others, luck. 

“ I see,” said Lord Ferriby, “ that Roden is of the 
same opinion as myself. A shrewd fellow, Roden.’’ 
And he pulled down his fancy waistcoat. 

“ Then I may write, or telegraph, to these men and 
tell them to come ?” asked Cornish. 

“ Most certainly, my dear Anthony. We will col- 
lect them, or muster them, as White calls it, in Lon- 
don, and then send them to Scheveningen, as before, 
when Roden and Herr Von Holzen are ready for 
them. Send a note to White, whose department this 
mustering is. As a soldier, he understands the 
handling of a body of men. You and I are more 
competent to deal with a sum of money.” 

Lord Ferriby glanced towards the door to make 
sure that it was open, so that the German clerk in 
the outer office should lose nothing that could only 
be for his good — might, in fact, pick up a few 
crumbs from the richly stored table of a great 
man’s mind. 

Lord Ferriby leisurely withdrew his gloves and 
67 


RODEN’S CORNER 


laid them on the closed bureau. He had the phy- 
sique of a director of public companies, and the 
grave manner that impresses shareholders. He 
talked of the weather, drew Cornish’s attention to 
a blot of ink on the high-art wall-paper, and then 
put on his gloves again, well pleased with himself 
and his morning’s work. 

“Everything appears to be in order, my dear 
Anthony,” he said. “ So there is nothing to keep 
me here any longer.” 

“ Nothing,” replied Cornish, and his lordship de- 
parted. 

Cornish remained until it was time to go across 
St. James’s Park to his club to lunch. He an- 
swered a certain number of letters himself, the 
others he handed over to the German clerk — a man 
with all the virtues, smooth, upright hair, and a 
dreamy eye. The Malgamite-makers were bidden 
to come as soon as they liked. After luncheon 
Cornish had to hurry back to Great George Street. 
This was one of his busy days. At four o’clock 
there was to be a meeting of the floor committee of 
the approaching ball, and Cornish remembered that 
he had been specially told to get a new bass string 
for the banjo. The Hon. Rupert Dalkyn had prom- 
ised to come, but had vowed that he would not 
touch the banjo again unless it had new strings. 
So Cornish bought the bass string at the Army and 
Navy stores, and the first preparation for the meet- 
ing of the floor committee was the tuning of the 
banjo by the German clerk. 

There were, of course, flowers to be bought and 
arranged tant bien que mat in empty inkstands — a 
conceit of Joan’s, who refused to spend the fund 
68 


OFFICIAL 


money in any ornament less serious, while she quite 
recognized the necessity for flowers on the table of 
a mixed committee. 

The Hon. Rupert was the first to arrive. He was 
very small and neat and rather effeminate. The 
experienced could tell at a glance that he came from 
a fighting stock. He wore a grave and rather pre- 
occupied air. He sat down on the arm of a chair 
and looked sadly into the fire, while his lips moved. 

“Got something on your mind?” asked Cornish, 
who was putting the finishing touches to the arrange- 
ment of the room. 

“Yes, a new song, composed for the occasion — 
‘ The Maudlin Malgamiter.’ Like to hear it ?” 

“ Well, I would rather wait. I think I hear a car- 
riage at the door,” said Cornish, hastily. 

Rupert Dalkyn had to be elected to the floor com- 
mittee because he was Mrs. Courteville’s brother, 
and Mrs. Courteville was the best chaperon in Lon- 
don. She was not only a widow, but her husband 
had been killed in rather painful circumstances. 

“ Poor dear,” the people said when she had done 
something perhaps a little unusual — “poor dear; 
you know her husband was killed.” 

So the late Courteville, in his lone grave by the 
banks of the Ogowe River, watched over his wife’s 
welfare, and made quite a nice place for her in Lon- 
don society. 

Rupert himself had been intended for the Church, 
but had at Cambridge developed such an exquisite 
sense of humor and so killing a power of mimicry 
that no one of the Dons was safe, and his friends 
told him that he really mustn’t. So he didn’t. Since 
then Rupert had, to tell the truth, done nothing. 

69 


RODEN’S CORNER 


The exquisite sense of humor had also slightly evap- 
orated. People said, “Oh yes, very funny,” than 
which nothing is more fatal to humor. And elderly 
ladies smiled a pinched smile at one side of their lips. 
It is so difficult to see a joke through those long- 
handled eye-glasses. 

Cornish was quite right when he said that he had 
heard a carriage, for presently the door opened and 
Mrs. Courteville came in. She was small and slight 
— “a girlish figure,” her maid told her — and well 
dressed. She was just at that age when she did not 
look it — at an age, moreover, when some women 
seem to combine a maximum of experience with a 
minimum of thought. But who are we to pick holes 
in our neighbors’ garments? If any of us is quite 
sure that he is not doing more harm than good in 
the world, let him by all means throw stones at 
Mrs. Courteville. 

Joan arrived next, accompanied by Lady Ferriby, 
who knew that if she stayed at home she would only 
have to give tea to a number of people towards whom 
she did not feel kindly enough disposed to reconcile 
herself to the expense. Joan glanced hastily from 
Mrs. Courteville to Tony. She had noticed that Mrs. 
Courteville always arrived early at the floor-com- 
mittee meetings when these were held at the Mal- 
gamite office or in Cornish’s rooms. Joan wondered, 
while Mrs. Courteville was kissing her, whether the 
widow had come with her brother or before him. 

“ Has he not made the room look pretty with that 
mimosa ?” asked Mrs. Courteville, vivaciously. Peo- 
ple did not know how matters stood between Joan 
Ferriby and Tony Cornish, and always wanted to 
know. That is why Mrs. Courteville said “he” 
70 


THE HON. RUPERT PLAYED THE BANJO 


/ 



I 





OFFICIAL 

only, when she drew Joan’s attention to the flow- 
ers. 

The meeting may best be described as lively. We 
live, however, in an eminently practical age, and 
some business was really transacted. The night for 
the Malgamite ball was fixed, and a list of stewards 
drawn up ; and then the Hon. Rupert played the 
banjo. 

Lady Ferriby had some calls to pay, so Cornish 
volunteered to walk across the park with Joan, who 
had a healthy love of exercise. They talked of vari- 
ous matters, and of course returned again and again 
to the Malgamite affairs. 

“By -the -way,” said Joan, at the corner of Cam- 
bridge Terrace, “ I had a letter this morning from 
Dorothy Roden. I was at school with her, you know, 
and never dreamed that Mr. Roden was her brother. 
In fact, I had nearly forgotten her existence. She is 
coming across for the ball. She says she saw you 
when you were at the Hague. You never mention- 
ed her, Tony.” 

“ Didn’t I ? She is not interested in the Malgamite 
scheme, you know. And nobody who is not interest- 
ed in that is worth mentioning.” 

They walked on in silence for a few minutes. Then 
Cornish asked a question : 

“ What sort of person was she at school ?” 

“ Oh, she was a frivolous sort of girl — never took 
anything seriously, you know. That is why she is 
not interested in the Malgamite, I suppose.” 

“ I suppose so,” said Tony Cornish. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE SEAMY SIDE 

“For this is death and the sole death 
When a mpris loss comes to him from his gain ” 

Mrs. Vansittart told Roden that her house was 
in Park Straat in the Hague. But she did not men- 
tion that it was at the corner of Oranje Straat, which 
makes all the difference. For Park Straat is long, 
and the farther end of it — the extremity farthest 
removed from the Royal Palace — is less desirable 
than the neighborhood of the Vyverberg. Mrs. Van- 
sittart’s house was in the most desirable part of a 
most desirable little city. She was surrounded with 
houses inhabited by people bearing names well known 
in history. These people are, moreover, of a fasci- 
nating cosmopolitanism. They come from all parts 
of the world, in an ancestral sense. There are, for 
instance, Dutch people living here whose names are 
Scottish. There are others of French extraction, 
others again whose forefathers came to Holland with 
the Don John of the religious wars whose history 
reads like a romance. 

Outwardly Mrs. Vansittart’s house was of dark-red 
brick, with stone facings, and probably belonged to 
that period which in England is called Tudor. In- 
wardly the house was as comfortable as thick car- 
72 


THE SEAMY SIDE 


pets and rich curtains and beautiful carvings could 
make it. The Dutch are pre-eminently the flower- 
growers of the world, and the observant traveller 
walking along Oranje Straat may note even in mid- 
winter that the flowers in the windows are changed 
each day. In this, as in other menus plaisirs, Mrs. 
Vansittart had assumed the ways of the country of 
her adoption. For Holland suggests to the inquir- 
ing mind an elderly gentleman, now getting a little 
stout, who, after a wild youth, is beginning to appre- 
ciate the blessings of repose and comfort ; who, hav- 
ing laid by a small sufficiency, sits peaceably by the 
fire and reflects upon the days that are no more. 

It was Mrs. Vansittart’s pleasant habit to surround 
herself with every comfort. She was an eminently 
self-respecting person — of that self-respect which de- 
nies itself nothing except excess. She liked to be 
well dressed, well housed, well served. She pos- 
sessed money, and with it she bought these adjuncts, 
which in a minor degree are within the reach of 
nearly everybody, though few have the wit to value 
them. She was not, however, a vociferously con- 
tented woman. Like many another, she probably 
wanted something that money could not buy. 

Mrs. Vansittart, in fulfilment of her promise to 
Percy Roden, called on Dorothy at the Villa des 
Dunes, who in due course came to the house at the 
corner of Park Straat and Oranje Straat to return 
the visit. Dorothy had been out when Mrs. Van- 
sittart called, but she thought she knew from her 
brother’s description what sort of woman to expect. 
For Dorothy Roden had been educated abroad, and 
was not without knowledge of a certain class of Eng- 
lish lady to be met with on the Continent, who is 
73 


RODEN’S CORNER 


always well connected, invariably idle, and usually 
refers gracefully to a great sorrow in the past. 

But Dorothy knew, as soon as she saw Mrs. Van- 
sittart, that she had formed an entirely erroneous 
conception. This was not the sort of woman to seek 
the admiration of the first-comer, and Percy Roden 
had allowed his sister to surmise that, whether it had 
been sought or not, Mrs. Vansittart had certainly 
been accorded his highest regard. 

“ It is good of you to return my call so soon,” she 
said, in a friendly voice. “ You have walked, I sup- 
pose, all the way from the Villa des Dunes. English 
girls are such great walkers now — a most excellent 
thing. I belong to the semi-generation older than 
yours, which preferred a carriage. I am a bad walker. 
You are not at all like your brother.” And she 
threw back her head and looked speculatively at 
her visitor. 

“ Sit down,” she said, with a laugh. “ You prob- 
ably came here harboring a prejudice against me. 
One should never get to know a woman through the 
instrumentality of her men folk. That is a rule 
almost without exception ; you may take it from 
one who is many years older than you. But — well, 
nous verrons. Perhaps we are the exception.” 

“ I hope so,” answered Dorothy, who was ready 
enough of speech. “At all events, all that Percy 
told me made me anxious to meet you. It is rather 
lonely, you know, at the Villa des Dunes. You see, 
Percy is engaged all day with his Malgamiters, in 
whom I am afraid I do not take much interest. And 
of course we know no one here yet.” 

“There is Herr Von Holzen,” suggested Mrs. Van- 
sittart, ringing the bell for tea. 

74 


THE SEAMY SIDE 


“ Oh yes. The man who is associated with Percy 
at the works. I do not know him. Percy has not 
brought him to the villa.” 

‘‘Ah, is that so? That is nice of your brother. 
Sometimes men, you know, make use of their wives 
or their sisters to help them in their business rela- 
tionships. I have known a man use his pretty daugh- 
ter to gain a client. Beauty levels all, you see. Not 
nice — no ! I suppose Herr Von Holzen is — well — let 
us call him a foreign savant. Such a nice broad 
term, you know ; covers such a plentiful lack of 
soap.” And she laughed easily, with eyes that were 
quite grave and alert. 

“ My brother does not say much about him,” an- 
swered Dorothy Roden. “ Percy never does tell me 
much of his affairs, and I am not sorry. I am sure 
I should not understand them. Stocks and shares 
and freights and things. I never quite know whether 
a freight is part of a ship — do you ?” 

“ No. There are so many things more useful to 
know — are there not? — things about people and 
human nature, for instance.” 

“ Yes,” said Dorothy, looking at her companion 
thoughtfully. “ Yes.” 

And Mrs. Vansittart returned that thoughtful 
glance. 

“ And the other man,” she said, suddenly. “ Mr. — 
Cornish — do you know him ?” 

“ He called at the Villa des Dunes. My brother 
brought him in to tea the evening of the arri- 
val of the first batch of Malgamiters,” replied 
Dorothy. 

“ Mr. Cornish interests me,” said Mrs. Vansittart. 
“ I knew him when he was a boy — or little more than 
75 


RODEN’S CORNER 


a boy. He came to Weimar with a tutor to learn 
German when I happened to be living* there. I have 
heard of him from time to time since. One sees his 
name in the society papers, you know. He is one of 
those persons of whom something is expected by his 
friends — not by himself. The young man who ex- 
pects something of himself is usually disappointed. 
Have you ever noticed in the biographies of great 
men, Miss Roden, that people nearly always began 
to expect something of them when they were quite 
young ? As if they were cast in a different mould 
from the very first. Really great men, I mean, not 
the fashionable pianist or novelist of the hour whose 
portrait is in every illustrated journal for perhaps 
two months and then he is forgotten.” 

Mrs. Vansittart spoke quickly in a foreign man- 
ner, asking with a certain vivacity questions which 
required no answer. Dorothy Roden was not slow, 
but she touched topics with less airiness. Her mind 
seemed a trifle insular in its tendencies. One topic 
attracted her, and the rest were set aside. 

“Why does Mr. Cornish interest you?” she asked. 

Mrs. Vansittart shrugged her shoulders and leaned 
back in her deep chair. “ He strikes me as a person 
with an infinite capacity for holding his cards. That 
is all. But perhaps he has no good cards in his hand ? 
Nothing but rubbish — the twos and threes of ordi- 
nary drawing-room smartness — and never a trump. 
Who can tell? Qui vivra verra , Miss Roden. It 
may not be in my time that the world shall hear of 
Tony Cornish — the real world, not the journalistic 
world, I mean. He may ripen slowly, and I shall 
be dead. I am getting elderly. How old do you 
think I am, Miss Roden ?” 

76 


THE SEAMY SIDE 

“ Thirty-three,” replied Dorothy, and Mrs. Vansit- 
tart turned sharply to look at her. 

“Ah!” she said, slowly and thoughtfully. “Yes, 
you are quite right. That is my age. And I sup- 
pose I look it. I suppose others would have guessed 
with equal facility, but not everybody would have 
had the honesty to say what they thought.” 

Dorothy laughed and changed color. “ I said it 
without thinking,” she answered. “ I hope you do 
not mind.” 

“ No, I do not mind,” said Mrs. Vansittart, looking 
out of the window. “ But we were talking of Mr. 
Cornish.” 

“ Yes,” answered Dorothy, buttoning her glove and 
glancing at the clock. “Yes, but I must not talk 
any longer or I shall be late, and my brother expects 
to find me at home when he returns from the 
works.” 

She rose and shook hands, looking Mrs. Vansittart 
in the eyes. When Dorothy had gone, the lady of 
the house stood for a minute looking at the closed 
door. 

“I wonder what she thinks of me?” she said. 

And Dorothy Roden, walking down Park Straat, 
was doing the same. She was wondering what she 
thought of Mrs. Vansittart. 

Although it was the month of April, the winter 
mists still rose at evening and swept seaward from 
the marshes of Leyden. The trees had scarcely be- 
gun to break into bud, for it had been a cold spring, 
and the ice was still floating lazily on the canal as 
Dorothy walked along its bank. The Villa des Dunes 
was certainly somewhat lonely, standing as it did a 
couple of hundred yards back from a sandy road — 
77 


RODEN’S CORNER 


one of the many leading from the Hague to Sche- 
veningen. Between the villa and the road the dunes 
had scarcely been molested, except, indeed, to cut 
a narrow roadway to the house. When Dorothy 
reached home she found that her brother had not 
yet returned. She looked at the clock. He was 
later than usual. The Malgamite works had during 
the last few weeks been absorbing more and more 
of his attention. When he returned home tired in 
the evening he was not communicative. As for Otto 
Von Holzen, he never showed his face outside the 
works, but seemed now to live the life of a recluse 
within the iron fence that surrounded the little 
colony. 

Percy Roden had not returned to the Villa des 
Dunes at the usual hour because he had other work 
to do. Von Holzen and he were now standing in 
one of the little huts in silence. The light of the 
setting sun glowed through the window upon their 
faces, upon the bare walls of the room, rendered 
barer and in no way beautified by a terrible German 
print purporting to represent the features of Prince 
Bismarck. 

Von Holzen stood with his hands clasped behind 
his back, and looked out of the window across the 
dreary dunes. Roden stood beside him, slouching 
and heavy-shouldered, with his hands in his trousers 
pockets. His lower lip was pressed inward between 
his teeth. His eyes were drawn and anxious. 

On the bed, between the two men, lay a third — 
an old-looking youth with lank red hair. It was the 
story of St. Jacob Straat over again, and it was new 
to Percy Roden, who could not turn his eyes else- 
where. The man was dying. He was a Pole, who 
78 


THE SEAMY SIDE 


understood no word of English. Indeed, these three 
men had no language in common in which to make 
themselves understood. 

“Can you do nothing at all?” asked Roden, for the 
second or third time. 

“ Nothing,” answered Von Holzen, without turning 
round. “ He was a doomed man when he came here.” 

The man lay on the bed and stared at Von Hol- 
zen’s back. Perhaps that was the reason why Von 
Holzen so persistently looked out of the window. 
The work-hours were over, and from some neighbor- 
ing cottage the sounds of a concertina came on the 
quiet air. The musician had chosen a popular music- 
hall song, which he played over and over again with 
a maddening pertinacity. Roden bit his lip and 
frowned at each repetition of the opening bars. 
Von Holzen, with a still, pale face and stern eyes, 
seemed to hear nothing. He had no nerves. At 
times he twisted his lips, moistening them with his 
tongue, and suppressed an impatient sigh. The man 
was a long time in dying. They had been waiting 
there two hours. This little incident had to be pass- 
ed over as quietly as possible on account of the feel- 
ings of the concertina-player and the others. 

The door stood ajar, and in the adjoining room a 
professional nurse, in cap and apron, sat reading a 
German newspaper. This also was a bedroom. The 
cottage was, in point of fact, the hospital of the Mal- 
gamite-workers. The nurse, whose services had not 
hitherto been wanted, had since the inauguration 
of the works spent some pleasant weeks at a pen- 
sion at Scheveningen. She read her newspaper very 
philosophically, and waited. 

Roden it was who watched the patient. The dying 
79 


RODEN’S CORNER 


man never heeded him, but looked persistently tow- 
ards Von Holzen. The expression of his eyes indi- 
cated that if they had had a language in common, 
he would have spoken to him. Roden saw the di- 
rection of the man’s glance, and perhaps read its 
meaning. For Percy Roden was handicapped with 
that greatest of all drags on a successful career — a 
soft heart. He could speak harshly enough of the 
Malgamiters as a class, but he was drawn towards 
this dumb individual with a strong desire to effect 
the impossible. Von Holzen had not promised that 
there should be no deaths. He had merely under- 
taken to reduce the dangers of the Malgamite in- 
dustry gradually and steadily until they ceased to 
exist. He had, moreover, the strength of mind to 
give to this incident its proper weight in the bal- 
ance of succeeding events. He was not, in a word, 
handicapped as was his colleague. 

The sun set beyond the quiet sea, and over the 
sand-dunes the shades of evening crept towards the 
west. The outline of Prince Bismarck’s iron face 
faded slowly in the gathering darkness, until it was 
nothing but a shadow in a frame on the bare wall. 
The concertina-player had laid aside his instrument. 
A sudden silence fell upon land and sea. 

Von Holzen turned sharply on hi£ heel and leaned 
over the bed. “ Come along,” he said to Roden, with 
averted eyes. “ It is all over. There is nothing 
more for us to do here.” 

With a backward glance towards the bed, Roden 
followed his companion out of the room into the ad- 
joining apartment where the nurse was sitting, and 
where their coats and hats lay on the bed. Von Hol- 
zen spoke to the woman in German. 

80 


THE MAN WAS A LONG TIME IN DYING 


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THE SEAMY SIDE 


“ So !” she answered, with a mild interest, and fold- 
ed her paper. 

The two men went out into the keen air together, 
and did not look towards each other or speak. Per- 
haps they knew that if there is any difficulty in 
speaking of a subject it is better to keep silence. 
They crossed the sandy space between this cottage 
and the others grouped round the factory like tents 
around their headquarters. One of these huts was 
Von Holzen’s — a three -roomed building where he 
worked and slept now. Its windows looked out upon 
the factory, and commanded the only entrance to 
the railed enclosure within which the whole colony 
was confined. It was Von Holzen’s habit to shut 
himself within his cottage for days together, living 
there in solitude like some crustacean within its 
shell. At the door he turned, with his fingers on the 
handle. 

“ You must not worry yourself about this,” he said 
to Roden, with averted eyes. “It cannot be helped, 
you know.” 

“ No ; I know that.” 

“ And of course we must keep our own counsel. 
Good-night, Roden.” 

“ Of course. Good-night, Von Holzen.” 

And Percy Roden passed through the gateway, 
walking slowly across the dunes towards his own 
house, while Von Holzen watched him from the win- 
dow of the little three-roomed cottage. 

F 


CHAPTER IX 


A SHADOW FROM THE PAST 

“ Le plus sdr vioyen d'arriver cL son but c'est de ne pas faire de 
recontres en chemin ” 

“ Yes, it was long ago — ‘ lang, lang ist’s her ’ — you 
remember the song that Frau Neumayer always 
sang. So long ago, Mr. Cornish, that — Well, it 
must be Mr. Cornish, and not Tony.” 

Mrs. Vansittart leaned back in her comfortable 
chair and looked at her visitor with observant eyes. 
Those who see the most are they who never appear 
to be observing. It is fatal to have others say that 
one is so sharp, and people said as much of Mrs. 
Vansittart, who had quick, dark eyes and an alert 
manner. 

“ Yes,” answered Cornish, “ it is long ago, but not 
so long as all that.” 

His smooth, fair face was slightly troubled by the 
knowledge that the recollections to which she re- 
ferred were those of the Weimar days when she who 
was now a widow had been a young married wom- 
an. Tony Cornish had also been young in those 
days, and impressionable. It was before the world 
had polished his surface, so to speak, making it 
bright and hard. And the impression left of the 
Mrs. Vansittart of Weimar was that she was one of 
82 


A SHADOW FROM THE PAST 


the rare women who marry “pour le bon motif.” 
He had met her by accident in the streets of the 
Hague a few hours ago, and, having learned her ad- 
dress, had, in duty bound, called at the house at the 
corner of Park Straat and Oranje Straat at the 
earliest calling hour. 

“ I am not ignorant of your history since you were 
at Weimar,” said the lady, looking at him with an 
air of almost maternal scrutiny. 

“ I have no history,” he replied. “ I never had a 
past even, a few years ago, when every man who 
took himself seriously had at least one.” 

He spoke, as he had learned to speak, with the 
surface of his mind — with the object of passing the 
time and avoiding topics that might possibly be 
painful. Many who appear to be egotistical must 
assuredly be credited with this good motive. One 
is, at all events, safe in talking of one’s self. Suffi- 
cient for the social day is the effort to avoid glanc- 
ing at the cupboard where our neighbor keeps his 
skeleton. 

A silence followed Cornish’s heroic speech, and it 
was perhaps better to face it than stave it off. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Vansittart, at the end of that 
pause, “ I am a widow and childless. I see the 
questions in your face.” 

Cornish gave a little nod of the head and looked 
out of the window. Mrs. Vansittart was only a year 
older than himself, but the difference in their life 
and experience when they had learned to know each 
other at Weimar had in some subtle way augmented 
the seniority. 

“ Then you never — ” he said, and paused. 

“ No,” she answered, lightly. “ So I am what the 
83 


RODEN’S CORNER 

world calls independent, you see. No encumbrance 
of any sort.” 

Again he nodded without speaking. 

“ The line between an encumbrance and a purpose 
is not very clearly defined, is it ?” she said, lightly, 
and then added a question. “ What are you doing 
in the Hague — Malgamite ?” 

“Yes,” he answered, in surprise, “Malgamite.” 

“Oh, I know all about it,” laughed Mrs. Vansit- 
tart. “ I see Dorothy Roden at least once a week.” 

“ But she takes no part in it.” 

“ No, she takes no part in it, mon ami, except in 
so far as it affects her brother, and compels her to 
live in a sad little villa on the Dunes.” 

“And you — you are interested?” 

“ Most assuredly. I have even given my mite. I 
am interested in — ” she paused and shrugged her 
shoulders — “ in you, since you ask me, in Dorothy, 
and in Mr. Roden. He gave me the flowers at which 
you are so earnestly looking, by-the-way.” 

“ Ah !” said Cornish, politely. 

“ Yes,” answered Mrs. Vansittart, with a passing 
smile. “ He is kind enough to give me flowers from 
time to time. You never gave me flowers, Mr. Cor- 
nish, in the olden times.” 

“Because I could not afford good ones.” 

“ And you would not offer anything more reason- 
able ?” 

“ Not to you,” he answered, lightly. 

“ But of course that was long ago.” 

“Yes. I am glad to hear that you know Miss 
Roden. It will make the little villa on the Dunes 
less sad. The atmosphere of Malgamite is not cheer- 
ful. One sees it at its best in a London drawing- 
84 


A SHADOW FROM THE PAST 


room. It is one of the many realities which have 
an evil odor when approached too closely.” 

“ And you are coming nearer to it ?” 

“ It is coming nearer to me.” 

“ Ah !” said Mrs. Vansittart, examining the rings 
with which her fingers were laden. “ I thought there 
would be developments.” 

“ There are developments. Hence my presence 
in the Hague. Lord Ferriby et famille arrive to- 
morrow. Also my friend Major White.” 

“The fighting-man ?” inquired Mrs. Vansittart. 

“ Yes, the fighting-man. We are to have a solemn 
meeting. It has been found necessary to alter our 
financial basis — ” 

Mrs.. Vansittart held up a warning hand. 

“ Do not talk to me of your financial basis. I 
know nothing of money. It is not from that point 
of view that I contemplate your Malgamite scheme.” 

“ Ah ! Then, if one may inquire, from what point 
of view ?” 

“ From the human point of view, as does every 
other woman connected with it. We are advancing, 
I admit, but I think we shall always be willing to 
leave the — financial basis to your down -trodden 
sex.” 

“ It is very kind of you to be interested in these 
poor people — ” began Cornish, but Mrs. Vansittart 
interrupted him vivaciously. 

“ Poor people ? Gott bewahre !” she cried. “ Did 
you think I meant the workers ? Oh no ! I am not 
interested in them. I am interested in your Rodens 
and your Ferribys and your Whites, and even in your 
Tony Cornish. I wonder who will quarrel and who 
will — well, do the contrary, and what will come of it 
85 


RODEN’S CORNER 


all. In my day young people were brought together 
by a common pleasure, but that has gone out of fash- 
ion. And now it is a common endeavor to achieve 
the impossible, to check the stars in their courses by 
the holding of mixed meetings, and the enunciation 
of second-hand platitudes respecting the poor and 
the masses— this is what brings the present gene- 
ration into that intercourse which ends in love and 
marriage and death— the old programme. And it is 
from that point of view alone, mon ami, that I take 
a particle of interest in your Malgamite scheme.” 

All of which Tony Cornish remembered later ; for 
it was untrue. He rose to take his leave with polite 
hopes of seeing her again. 

“ Oh, do not hurry away,” she said. “ I am ex- 
pecting Dorothy Roden, who promised to come to 
tea. She will be disappointed not to see you.” 

Cornish laughed in his light way. 

“ You are kind in your assumptions,” he answered. 
“ Miss Roden is barely aware of my existence, and 
would not know me from Adam.” 

Nevertheless he stayed, moving about the room for 
some minutes looking at the flowers and the pictures, 
of which he knew just as much as was desirable and 
fashionable. He knew what flowers were “ in,” such 
as fuchsias and tulips, and what were “out,” such as 
camellias and double hyacinths. About the pictures 
he knew a little, and asked questions as to some upon 
the walls that belonged to the Dutch school. He 
was of the universe, universal. Then he sat down 
again unobtrusively, and Mrs. Vansittart did not 
seem to notice that he had done so, though she 
glanced at the clock. 

A few minutes later Dorothy came in. She changed 
86 





“‘ARE YOU LIKE JOAN?’ ASKED CORNISH 






A SHADOW FROM THE PAST 


color when Mrs. Vansittart half introduced Cornish 
with the conventional, “ I think you know each 
other.” 

“ I knew you were coming to the Hague,” she said, 
shaking hands with Cornish. “ I had a letter from 
Joan the other day. They are all coming, are they 
not? I am afraid Joan will be very much disap- 
pointed in me. She thinks I am wrapped up heart 
and soul in the Malgamiters — and I am not, you 
know.” 

She turned with a little laugh and appealed to 
Mrs. Vansittart, who was watching her closely, as 
if Dorothy was displaying some quality or point 
hitherto unknown to the older woman. The girl’s 
eyes were certainly brighter than usual. 

“ Joan takes some things very seriously,” answered 
Cornish. 

“ We all do that, mon ami,” said Mrs. Vansittart, 
without looking up from the tea-table at which she 
was engaged. 

“ Yes ; it is a mistake, of course.” 

“ Possibly,” assented Mrs. Vansittart. “ Do you 
take sugar, Miss Roden ?” 

“ Yes, please — seriously — two pieces.” 

“Are you like Joan?” asked Cornish, as he gave 
her the cup. “ Do you take anything else — except 
sugar, of course — seriously ?” 

“ Oh no !” answered Dorothy Roden, with a laugh. 

“And your brother?” inquired Mrs. Vansittart. 
“ Is he coming this afternoon ?” 

“ He will follow me. He is busy with the new 
Malgamiters who arrived this morning. I suppose 
you brought them, Mr. Cornish ?” 

“Yes, I brought them. Twenty-four of them — 

87 


RODEN’S CORNER 


the dregs, so to speak. The very last of the Malga- 
miters, collected from all parts of the world. I was 
not proud of my travelling companions.” 

He sat down and quickly changed the conversa- 
tion, showing quite clearly that this subject inter- 
ested him as little as it interested his companions. 
He brought the latest news from London, which the 
ladies were glad enough to hear. For to Dorothy 
Roden, at least, the Hague was a place of exile where 
men lived different lives and women thought differ- 
ent thoughts. Are there not a hundred little rivu- 
lets of news which never flow through the journals, 
but are passed from mouth to mouth, and seem shal- 
low enough, but which, uniting at last, form a great 
stream of public opinion, and this, having formed 
itself imperceptibly, is suddenly found in full flow, 
and is so obvious that the newspapers forget to men- 
tion it. Thus colonists and other exiles returning 
to England, and priding themselves upon having 
kept in touch with the progress of events and ideas 
in the old country, find that their thoughts have all 
the while been running in the wrong channels — that 
seemingly great events have been considered very 
small, that small ideas have been lifted high by the 
babbling crowd which is vaguely called society. 

From Tony Cornish, Mrs. Vansittart and Dorothy 
learned that among other social playthings charity 
was for the moment being laid aside. We have in- 
herited, it appears, a great box of playthings, and 
the careful student of history will find that none of 
the toys are new— that they have indeed been played 
with by our forefathers, who did just as we do. 
They took each toy from the box and cried aloud 
that it was new, that the world had never seen its 
88 


A SHADOW FROM THE PAST 


like before. Had it not, indeed ? Then presently 
the toy — were it charity, or a new religion, or senti- 
ment, or greed of gain, or war — was thrown back 
into the box again, where it lies until we of a later 
day drag it forth with the same cry that it is new. 
We grow wild with excitement over South African 
mines, and never recognize the old South Sea bub- 
ble trimmed anew to suit the taste of the day. We 
crow with delight over our East End slums, and 
never recognize the patched-up remnants of the last 
Crusade that fizzled out so ignominiously at Acre 
five hundred years ago. 

So Tony Cornish, who was dans le mouvement , 
gently intimated to his hearers that what may be 
called a robuster tone ruled the spirit of the age. 
Charity was going down ; athletics were coming up. 
Another Olympiad had passed away. Wise indeed 
was Solon, who allowed four years for men to soften 
and then to harden again. During the Olympiads 
it is to be presumed that men busied themselves 
with the slums that existed in those days, hearkened 
to the decadent poetry or fiction of that time, and 
then, as the robuster period of the games came 
round, braced themselves once more to the consid- 
eration of braver things. 

It appeared, therefore, that the Malgamite scheme 
was already a thing of the past, so far as social Lon- 
don was concerned. A sensational ’Varsity boat- 
race had given Charity its coup de gr dee, had ushered 
in the Spring, when even the poor must shift for 
themselves. 

“ And in the mean time,” commented Mrs. Van- 
sittart, “here are four hundred industrials landed, 
if one may so put it, at the Hague.” 

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RODEN’S CORNER 


c< Yes ; but that will be all right,” retorted Cor- 
nish, with his gay little laugh. “ They only wanted 
a start. They have got their start. What more can 
they desire ? Is not Lord Ferriby himself coming 
across ? He is at the moment on board the Flush- 
ing boat ! And he is making a great sacrifice, for 
he must be aware that he does not look nearly so 
impressive on the Continent as he does, say, in Pic- 
cadilly, where the policemen know him, and even 
the newspaper boys are dimly aware that this is no 
ordinary man to whom one may offer a halfpenny 
evening paper of Radical tendencies — ■” 

Cornish broke off and looked towards the door, 
which was at this moment thrown open by a ser- 
vant, who announced : 

“ Herr Roden. Herr Von Holzen.” 

The two men came forward together, Roden 
slouching and heavy-shouldered, but well dressed ; 
Von Holzen smaller, compacter, with a thoughtful, 
still face and calculating eyes. Roden introduced 
his companion to the two ladies. It is possible that 
a certain reluctance in his manner indicated the fact 
that he had brought Von Holzen against his own 
desire. Either Von Holzen had asked to be brought, 
or Mrs. Vansittart had intimated to Roden that she 
would welcome his associate, but this was not touched 
upon in the course of the introduction. Cornish 
looked gravely on. Von Holzen was betrayed into 
a momentary gaucheness, as if he were not quite at 
home in a drawing-room. 

Roden drew forward a chair and seated himself 
near to Mrs. Vansittart, with an air of familiarity 
which the lady seemed rather to invite than to re- 
sent. They had, it appeared, many topics in common. 

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A SHADOW FROM THE PAST 

Roden had come with the purpose of seeing Mrs. 
Vansittart and no one else. Her manner also 
changed as soon as Roden entered the room, and 
seemed to appeal with a sort of deference to his 
judgment of all that she said or did. It was a sub- 
tle change, and perhaps no one noticed it, though 
Dorothy, who was exchanging conventional remarks 
with Von Holzen, glanced across the room once. 

“Ah,” Von Holzen was saying in his grave way, 
with his head bent a little forward as if the rounded 
brow were heavy — “ ah, but I am only the chemist, 
Miss Roden. It is your brother who has placed us 
on our wonderful financial basis. He has a head for 
finance, your brother, and is quick in his calcula- 
tions. He understands money, whereas I am only a 
scientist.” 

He spoke English correctly but slowly, with the 
Dutch accent, which is slighter and less guttural 
than the German. Dorothy was interested in him, 
and continued to talk with him, leaving Cornish 
standing at a little distance, teacup in hand. Von 
Holzen was in strong contrast to the two English- 
men. He was graver, more thoughtful, a man of 
deeper purpose and more solid intellect. There was 
something dimly Napoleonic in the direct and cal- 
culating glance of his eyes — as if he never looked 
idly at anything or any man. It was he who made 
a movement after the lapse of a few moments only, 
as if, having recovered his slight embarrassment, he 
did not intend to stay longer than the merest eti- 
quette might demand. He crossed the room and 
stood before Mrs. Vansittart, with his heels clapped 
well together, making the most formal conversation, 
which was only varied by a stiff bow. 

9i 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ I have a friendly recollection,” he said, prepar- 
ing to take his leave, “ of a Charles Vansittart, a 
student at Leyden, with whom I was brought into 
contact again in later life. He was, I believe, from 
Amsterdam, and had an English mother.” 

“Ah!” replied Mrs. Vansittart, “mine is a com- 
mon name.” 

And they bowed to each other in the foreign way. 


CHAPTER X 


DEEPER WATER 
“ Une bonne intention est une tchelle trop courte " 

“ I have had considerable experience in such mat- 
ters, and I think I may say that the new financial 
scheme worked out by Mr. Roden and myself is a 
sound one," Lord Ferriby was saying in his best 
manner. 

He was addressing Major White, Tony Cornish, 
Von Holzen, and Percy Roden, convened in the 
private salon occupied by the Ferribys at the Hotel 
of the Old Shooting-Gallery, at the Hague. 

The salon in question was at the front of the 
house on the first floor, and therefore looked out 
upon the Toornoifeld, where the trees were begin- 
ning to show a tender green, under the encourage- 
ment of a treacherous April sun. Major White, 
seated bolt-upright in his chair, looked with a gentle 
surprise out of the window. He had so small an 
opinion of his understanding that he usually begged 
explanatory persons to excuse him. “ No doubt 
you’re quite right, but i^[s no use trying to explain 
it to me, don’t you know,” he was in the habit of 
saying, and his attitude said no less at the present 
moment. 

Von Holzen, with his chin in the palm of his hand, 
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RODEN’S CORNER 


watched Lord Ferriby’s face with a greater atten- 
tion than that transparent physiognomy either re- 
quired or deserved. Roden’s attention was fully 
occupied by the papers on the table in front of him. 
He was seated by Lord Ferriby’s side, ready to 
prompt or assist, as behooved a merely mechanical 
subordinate. Lord Ferriby, dimly conscious of this 
mental attitude, had spoken Roden’s name with con- 
siderable patronage, and with the evident desire to 
give every man his due. Cornish, in his quick and 
superficial way, glanced from one face to the other, 
taking in en passant any object in the room that 
happened to call for a momentary attention. He 
noted the passive and somewhat bovine surprise on 
White’s face, and wondered whether it owed its pres- 
ence there to astonishment at finding himself taking 
part in a committee meeting, or amazement at the 
suggestion that Lord Ferriby should be capable of 
evolving any scheme, financial or otherwise, out of 
his own brain. The committee thus summoned was 
a fair sample of its kind. Here were a number of 
men dividing a sense of responsibility among them 
so impartially that there was not nearly enough of 
it to go round. In a multitude of counsellors there 
may be safety — but it is assuredly the counsellors 
only who are safe. 

“ The reasons,” continued Lord Ferriby, “ why it 
is inexpedient to continue in our present position as 
mere trustees of a charitable fund are too numerous 
to go into at the present moment. Suffice it to say 
that there are many such reasons, and that I have 
satisfied myself of their soundness. Our chief desire 
is to ameliorate the condition of the Malgamite-work- 
ers. It must assuredly suggest itself to any one of 
94 


DEEPER WATER 


us that the best method of doing this is to make 
the Malgamite-workers an independent corporation, 
bound together by the greatest of ties, a common 
interest.” 

The speaker paused and turned to Roden with a 
triumphant smile, as much as to say, “ There, beat 
that if you can.” 

Roden could not beat it, so he nodded thought- 
fully and examined the point of his pen. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Lord Ferriby, impressively, 
“ the greatest common interest is a common purse.” 

As the meeting was too small for applause, Lord 
Ferriby only allowed sufficient time for this great 
truth to be assimilated, and then continued : 

“ It is proposed, therefore, that we turn the Mal- 
gamite works into a company, the most numerous 
shareholders to be the Malgamiters themselves. The 
most numerous shareholders, mark you — not the 
heaviest shareholders. These shall be ourselves. 
We propose to estimate the capital of the company 
at ten thousand pounds, which, as you know, is, ap- 
proximately speaking, the amount raised by our ap- 
peals on behalf of this great charity. We shall divide 
this capital into two thousand five-pound shares, 
allot one share to each Malgamite-worker — say five 
hundred shares — and retain the rest — say fifteen 
hundred shares — ourselves. Of these fifteen hun- 
dred it is proposed to allot three hundred to each 
of us. Do I make myself clear ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Major White, optimistically pol- 
ishing his eye-glass with a pocket-handkerchief. 
“Any ass could understand that.” 

“ Our friend Mr. Roden,” continued his lordship, 
“ who, I mention in passing, is one of the finest finan- 
95 


RODEN’S CORNER 


ciers with whom I have ever had relationship, is of 
opinion that this company, having its works in Hol- 
land, should not be registered as a limited company 
in England. The reasons for holding such an opin- 
ion are, briefly, connected with the interference of 
the English law in the management of a limited- 
liability company formed for the sole purpose of 
making money. We are not disposed to classify 
ourselves as such a company. We are not disposed 
to pay the English income-tax on money which is 
intended for distribution in charity. Each Malga- 
mite-worker, with his one share, is not, precisely 
speaking, so much a shareholder as a participator 
in profits. We are not in any sense a limited-liabil- 
ity company.” 

That Lord Ferriby had again made himself clear 
was sufficiently indicated by the fact that Major 
White nodded his head at this juncture with por- 
tentous gravity and wisdom. 

“ As to the question of profit and loss,” continued 
Lord Ferriby, “ I am not, unfortunately, a business 
man myself, but I think we are all aware that the 
business part of the Malgamite scheme is in excel- 
lent hands. It is not, of course, intended that we, as 
shareholders, shall in any way profit by this new finan- 
cial basis. We are shareholders in name only, and 
receive profits, if profits there be, merely as trustees 
of the Malgamite Fund. We shall administer those 
profits precisely as we have administered the fund — 
for the sole benefit of the Malgamite-workers. The 
profits of these poor men, earned on their own 
shares, may reasonably be considered in the light 
of a bonus. So much for the basis upon which I 
propose that we shall work. The matter has had 
96 


GENTLEMEN/ SAID LORD FERRIBY, IMPRESSIVELY 









I 

























DEEPER WATER 


Mr. Roden’s careful consideration, and I think we 
are ready to give our consent to any proposal which 
has received so marked a benefit. There are, of 
course, many details which will require discussion — 
Eh ?” 

Lord Ferriby broke off short and turned to Roden, 
who had muttered a few words. 

“Ah — yes. Yes, certainly. Mr. Roden will kindly 
spare us details as much as possible.” 

This was considerate, and somewhat appropriate, 
as Tony Cornish had yawned more than once. 

“Now as to the past,” continued Lord Ferriby. 
“ The works have been going for more than three 
months, and the result has been uniformly satisfac- 
tory — Eh ?” 

“ Many deaths ?” inquired White, stolidly, repeat- 
ing his question. 

“Deaths? Ah — among the workers? Yes, to be 
sure. Perhaps Mr. Von Holzen can tell you better 
than I.” 

And his lordship bowed in what he took to be the 
foreign manner across the table. 

“Yes,” replied Von Holzen, quietly, “there have, 
of course, been deaths, but not so many as I antici- 
pated. The majority of the men had, as Mr. Cornish 
will tell you, death written on their faces when they 
arrived at the Hague.” 

“ They certainly looked seedy,” admitted Tony. 

“We will, I think, turn rather to the — eh — er — liv- 
ing,” said Lord Ferriby, turning over the papers 
in front of him with a slightly reproachful coun- 
tenance. He evidently thought it rather bad form 
of White to pour cold water over his new white- 
wash. For Lord Ferriby’s was that Charity which 
g 97 


RODEN’S CORNER 


hopeth all things, and closeth her eye to practi- 
cal facts if these be discouraging. “ I have here 
the result of the three months’ work.” 

He looked at the papers with so condescending 
an air that it was quite evident that, had he been a 
business man and not a lord, he would have under- 
stood them at a glance. There was a short silence 
while he turned the closely written sheets with an 
air of approving interest. 

“Yes,” he said, as if during those moments he had 
run his eye up all the columns of figures and found 
them correct, “ the result, as I say, gentlemen, has 
been most satisfactory. We have manufactured a 
Malgamite which has been well received by the 
paper-makers. We have, furthermore, been able to 
supply at the current rate without any serious loss. 
We are increasing our plant, and the day is not so 
far distant when we may, at all events, hope to be 
self-supporting.” 

Lord Ferriby sat up and pulled down his waist- 
coat, a sure signal that the fountain of his garrulous 
inspiration was for the moment dried up. 

With great presence of mind Tony Cornish inter- 
posed a question which only Roden could answer, 
and after the consideration of some statistics the 
proceedings terminated. It had been apparent all 
through that Percy Roden was the only business 
man of the party. In any question of figures or 
statistics, his colleagues showed plainly that they 
were at sea. Lord Ferriby had in early life been 
managed by a thrifty mother, who had in due course 
married him to a thrifty wife. Tony Cornish’s busi- 
ness affairs had been narrowed down to the finan- 
cial fiasco of a tailor’s bill far beyond his facilities. 

98 


DEEPER WATER 


Major White had, in his subaltern days, been de- 
spatched from Gibraltar on a business quest into 
the interior of Spain to buy mules there for his 
Queen and country. He fell out with a dealer at 
Ronda, whom he knocked down, and returned to 
Gibraltar branded as unbusinesslike and hasty, and 
there his commercial enterprise had terminated. 
Von Holzen was only a scientist, a fact of which he 
assured his colleagues repeatedly. 

If plain-speaking be a sign of friendship, then 
women are assuredly capable of higher flights than 
men. A life-long friendship between two women 
usually means that they quarrelled at school, and 
have retained in later days the privilege of mutual 
plain-speaking. If Jones, who was Tompkins’s best 
man, goes yachting with Tompkins in later days, 
these two sinners are quite capable of enjoying them- 
selves immensely in the present without raking about 
among the ashes of the past to seek the reason why 
Tompkins persisted, in spite of his friends’ advice, 
in making an idiot of himself over that Robinson 
girl — Jones standing by all the while with the ring 
in his waistcoat pocket. Whereas if the friendship 
exists between the respective ladies of Jones and 
Tompkins, their conversation will usually be found 
to begin with : “ I always told you, Maria, when we 
were girls together or, “Well, Jane, when we were 
at school you never would listen to me.” A man’s 
friendship is apparently based upon a knowledge of 
another’s redeeming qualities. A woman’s dearest 
friend is she whose faults will bear the closest inves- 
tigation. 

It was doubtless owing to these trifling varia- 
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L. of C. 


RODEN’S CORNER 


tions in temperament thatjoan Ferriby learned more 
about the Hague and Percy Roden and Otto Von 
Holzen, and lastly, though not least, Mrs. Vansittart, 
in ten minutes than Tony Cornish could have learn- 
ed in a month of patient investigation. The first 
five of these ten precious minutes were spent in kiss- 
ing Dorothy Roden, and admiring her hat, and hold- 
ing her at arm’s-length, and saying with conviction 
that she was a dear. Then Joan asked why Dorothy 
had ceased writing, and Dorothy proved that it was 
Joan who had been in default ; and lo ! a bridge was 
thrown across the years, and they were friends once 
more. 

“And you mean to tell me,” said Joan, as they 
walked up the Korte Voorhout towards the canal 
and the Wood, “ that you don’t take any interest in 
the Malgamite scheme ?” 

“No,” answered Dorothy. “And I am weary of 
the very word.” 

“ But then you always were rather — well, frivolous, 
weren’t you ?” 

“ I did not take lessons as seriously as you, per- 
haps, if that is what you mean,” admitted Dorothy. 

And Joan, who had come across to Holland full 
of zeal in well-doing, and as seriously as ever Queen 
Marguerite sailed to the Holy Land, walked on in 
silence. The trees were just breaking into leaf, and 
the air was laden with a subtle odor of spring. The 
Korte Voorhout is, as many know, a short, broad 
street, spotlessly clean, bordered on either side by 
quaint and comfortable houses. The traffic is usual- 
ly limited to one carriage going to the Wood, and on 
the pavement a few leisurely persons engaged in 
taking exercise in the sunshine. It was a different 


ioo 


DEEPER WATER 


atmosphere to that from which Joan had come, more 
restful, purer perhaps, and certainly healthier, pos- 
sibly more thoughtful ; and charity, above all vir- 
tues, to be practised well must be practised without 
too much reflection. He who lets wisdom guide 
his bounty too closely will end by giving nothing 
at all. 

“At all events,” said Joan, “it is splendid of Mr. 
Roden to work so hard in the cause, and to give him- 
self up to it as he does.” 

“Ye-es.” 

Joan turned sharply and looked at her companion. 
Dorothy Roden’s face was, perhaps, easy to read, es- 
pecially when she turned as she turned now to meet 
an inquiring glance with an easy smile. 

“ I have known so many of Percy’s schemes,” she 
explained, “ that you must not expect me to be en- 
thusiastic.” 

“ But this must succeed, whatever may have hap- 
pened to the others,” cried Joan. “ It is such a good 
cause. Surely nothing can be a better aim than to 
help such afflicted people, who cannot help them- 
selves, Dorothy ! And it is so splendidly organized. 
Why, Mr. Johnson, the labor expert, you know, who 
wears no collar and a soft hat, said that it could not 
have been better organized if it had been a strike. 
And a Bishop Somebody — a dear old man with legs 
like a billiard-table’s — said it reminded him of the 
early Christians’ esprit de corps, or something like 
that. Doesn’t sound like a bishop, though, does it ?” 

“ No, it doesn’t,” admitted Dorothy, doubtfully. 

“ So if your brother thinks it will not succeed,” 
said Joan, confidently, “he is wrong. Besides” — in 
a final voice — “ he has Tony to help him, you know.” 

IOI 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ Yes,” said Dorothy, looking straight in front of 
her, “ of course he has Mr. Cornish.” 

“ And Tony,” pursued Joan, eagerly, “ always suc- 
ceeds. There is something about him — I don’t know 
what it is.” 

Dorothy recollected that Mrs. Vansittart had said 
something like this about Tony Cornish. She had 
said that he had the power of holding his cards and 
only playing them at the right moment. Which is 
perhaps the secret of success in life — namely, to hold 
one’s cards, and, if the right moment does not pre- 
sent itself, never to play them at all, but to hold them 
to the end of the game, contenting one’s self with 
the knowledge that one has had, after all, the mak- 
ings of a fine game that might have been worth the 
playing. 

“There are people, you know,” Joan broke in, 
earnestly, “ who think that if they can secure Tony 
for a picnic, the weather will be fine.” 

“ And does he know it ?” asked Dorothy, rather 
shortly. 

“Tony?” laughed Joan. “Of course not. He 
never thinks about anything like that.” 


CHAPTER XI 


IN THE OUDE WEG 
“ Le sage entend a demi-mot ” 

The porter of the hotel on the Toornoifeld was 
enjoying his early cigarette in the doorway, when 
he was impelled by a natural politeness to stand 
aside for one of the visitors in the hotel. 

“Ah!” he said. “You promenade yourself thus 
early ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Cornish, cheerily, “ I promenade 
myself thus early.” 

“You have had your coffee?” asked the porter. 
“ It is not good to go near the canals when one is 
empty.” 

Cornish lingered a few minutes and made the 
man’s mind easy on this point. There are many 
who obtain a vast deal of information without ever 
asking a question, just as there are some — and they 
are mostly women — who ask many questions and 
are told many lies. Tony Cornish had a cheery way 
with him which made other men talk. He was also 
as quick as a woman. He went about the world 
picking up information. 

The city clocks were striking seven as he walked 
across the Toornoifeld, where the morning mist still 
lingered among the trees. The great square was 
103 


RODEN'S CORNER 


almost deserted. Holland, unlike France, is a lie- 
abed country, and at an hour when a French town 
would be astir and its streets already thronged with 
people hurrying to buy or sell at the greatest possi- 
ble advantage, a Dutch city is still asleep. Park 
Straat was almost deserted as Cornish walked brisk- 
ly down it towards the Willem’s Park and Scheven- 
ingen. A few street-cleaners were leisurely work- 
ing, a few milkmen were hurrying from door to 
door, but the houses were barred and silent. 

Cornish walked on the right-hand side of the road, 
which made it all the easier for Mrs. Vansittart to 
perceive him from her bedroom window as he passed 
Oranje Straat. 

“ Ah !” said that lady, and rang the bell for her 
maid, to whom she explained that she had a sudden 
desire to take a promenade this fine morning. 

So Tony Cornish walked down the Oude Weg 
under the trees of that great thoroughfare, with 
Mrs. Vansittart following him leisurely by one of 
the side-paths, which, being elevated above the road, 
enabled her to look down upon the Englishman and 
keep him in sight. When he came within view of 
the broad road that cuts the Scheveningen wood in 
two and leads from the East Dunes to the West — 
from the Malgamite works, in a word, to the ceme- 
tery— he sat down on a bench hidden by the trees. 
And Mrs. Vansittart, a hundred yards behind him, 
took possession of a seat as effectually concealed. 

They remained thus for some time, the object of 
a passing curiosity to the fish-merchants journeying 
from Scheveningen to the Hague. Then Tony Cor- 
nish seemed to perceive something on the road tow- 
ards the sea which interested him, and Mrs. Van- 
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FUNERAL, CHEAP, SORDID, AND OBSCURE 















IN THE OUDE WEG 


sittart, rising from her seat, walked down to the 
main pathway, which commanded an uninterrupted 
view. That which had attracted Cornish’s attention 
was a funeral, cheap, sordid, and obscure, which 
moved slowly across the Oude Weg by the road cross- 
ing it at right angles. It was a peculiar funeral, 
inasmuch as it consisted of three hearses and one 
mourning-carriage. The dead were therefore almost 
as numerous as the living, an unusual feature in civil 
burials. From the window of the rusty mourning- 
coach there looked a couple of debased countenances, 
flushed with drink and that form of excitement 
which is especially associated with a mourning-coach 
hired on credit and a funeral beyond one’s means. 
Behind these two faces loomed others. There seemed 
to be six men within the carriage. 

The procession was not inspiriting, and Cornish’s 
keen face was momentarily grave as he watched it. 
When it had passed he rose and walked slowly back 
towards the Hague. Before he had gone far he met 
Mrs. Vansittart face to face, who rose from a seat as 
he approached. 

“ Well, mon ami,” she asked, with a short laugh, 
“ have you had a pleasant walk ?” 

“ It has had a pleasant end, at all events,” he re- 
plied, meeting her glance with an imperturbable 
smile. 

She jerked her head upwards with a little foreign 
gesture of indifference. 

“ It is to be presumed,” she said, as they walked 
on side by side, “ that you have been exploring and 
investigating our — by-ways. Remember, my good 
Tony, that I live in the Hague, and may therefore 
be possessed of information that might be useful to 

105 


RODEN’S CORNER 


you. It will probably be at your disposal when you 
need it.” 

She looked at him with daring black eyes, and 
laughed. A strong man usually takes a sort of pride 
in his power. This woman enjoyed the same sort of 
exultation in her own cleverness. She was not wise 
enough to hide it, which is indeed a grim, negative 
pleasure usually enjoyed by elderly gentlemen only. 
Social progress has, moreover, made it almost a crime 
to hide one’s light under a bushel. Are we not told, 
in so many words, by the interviewer and the per- 
sonal paragraphist, that it is every man’s duty to set 
his light upon a candlestick, so that his neighbor 
may at least try to blow it out ? 

Cornish had learned to know Mrs. Vansittart at a 
period in her life when, as a young married woman, 
she regarded all her juniors with a matronly good- 
will, none the less active that it was so exceedingly 
new. She had in those days given much good ad- 
vice, which Cornish had respectfully heard. Fate 
had brought them together at the rare moment and 
in almost the sole circumstances that allow of a 
friendship being formed between a man and a woman. 

They walked slowly side by side now under the 
trees of the Oude Weg, inhaling the fresh morning 
air, which was scented by a hundred breaths of spring, 
and felt clean to face and lips. Mrs. Vansittart had 
no intention of resigning her position of mentor and 
friend. It was, moreover, one of those positions 
which will not bear being defined in so many words. 
Between men and women it often happens that to 
point out the existence of certain feelings is to de- 
stroy them. To say, “ Be my friend,” as often as 
not makes friendship impossible. Mrs. Vansittart 
106 


IN THE OUDE WEG 


was too clever a woman to run such a risk in deal- 
ing with a man in whom she had detected a reserve 
of which the rest of the world had taken no account. 
It is unwise to enter into war or friendship without 
seeing to the reserves. 

“ Do you remember,” asked Mrs. Vansittart, sud- 
denly, “ how wise we were when we were young ? 
What knowledge of the world, what experience of 
life one has when all life is before one !” 

“ Yes,” admitted Cornish, guardedly. 

“ But if I preached a great deal, I at all events did 
you no harm,” said Mrs. Vansittart, with a laugh. 

“ No.” 

“ And as to experience, well, one buys that later.” 

“ Yes ; and the wise resell — at a profit,” laughed 
Cornish. “ It is not a commodity that any one cares 
to keep. If we cannot sell it, we offer it for nothing, 
to the young.” 

“ Who accept it — at an even lower valuation ; and 
you and I, Mr. Tony Cornish, are cynics who talk 
cheap epigrams to hide our thoughts.” 

They walked on for a few yards in silence. Then 
Tony turned in his quick way and looked at her. 
He had thin, mobile lips, which expressed friendship 
and curiosity at this moment. 

“ What are you thinking?” he asked. 

She turned and looked at him with grave, search- 
ing eyes, and when these met his it became ap- 
parent that their friendship had re - established 
itself. 

“Of your affairs,” she answered, “and funerals.” 

“ Both lugubrious,” suggested Cornish. “ But I 
am obliged to you for so far honoring me.” 

He broke off, and again walked on in silence. She 
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RODEN’S CORNER 


glanced at him half angrily, and gave a quick shrug 
of the shoulders. 

“ Then you will not speak,” she said, opening her 
parasol with a snap. “ So be it. The time has per- 
haps not come yet. But if I am in the humor when 
that time does come, you will find that you have no 
ally so strong as I. Ah, you may stick your chin 
out and look as innocent as you like ! You are not 
easy in your mind, my good friend, about this pre- 
cious Malgamite scheme. But I ask no confidences, 
and, bon Dieu ! I give none.” 

She broke off with a little laugh, and looked at 
him beneath the shade of her parasol. She had a 
hundred foreign ways of putting a whole wealth of 
meaning into a single gesture, into a movement of 
a parasol or a fan, such as women acquire, and use 
upon poor defenceless men, who must needs face the 
world with stolid faces and slow, dumb hands. 

Cornish answered the laugh readily enough. 

“ Ah !” he said, “ then I am accused of uneasiness 
of mind — of preoccupation, in fact. I plead guilty. 
I made a mistake. I got up too early. It was a fine 
morning, and I was tempted to take a walk before 
breakfast, which we have at half-past nine, in a fine 
old British way. We have toast and a fried sole. 
Great is the English milord !” 

They were in Park Straat now, in sight of Mrs. 
Vansittart’s house. And that lady knew that her 
companion was talking in order to say nothing. 

“ We leave this morning,” continued Cornish, in 
the same vein. “And we rather flatter ourselves 
that we have upheld the dignity of our nation in 
these benighted foreign parts.” 

“ Ah ! that poor Lord Ferriby ! It is so easy to 
108 


IN THE OUDE WEG 


laugh at him. You think him a fool, although — or 
because — he is your uncle. So do I, perhaps. But 
I always have a little distrust for the foolishness of 
a person who has once been a knave. You know 
your uncle’s reputation— the past one, I mean, not 
the whitewash. Do not forget it.” They had reach- 
ed the corner of Oranje Straat, and Mrs. Vansittart 
paused on her own door-step. “ So you leave this 
morning,” she said. “ Remember that I am in the 
Hague, and — well, we were once friends. If I can 
help you, make use of me. You have been wonder- 
fully discreet, my friend. And I have not. But dis- 
cretion is not required of a woman. If there is any- 
thing to tell you, you shall hear from me.” 

She held out her hand and bade him good-bye with 
a semi-malicious laugh. Then she stood in the porch 
and watched him walk quickly away. 

“ So it is Dorothy Roden,” she said to herself, with 
a wise nod. “An odd case. One of those at first 
sight, one may suppose.” 

The Rodens, of whom she thought at the moment, 
were not only thinking, but speaking of her. They 
had finished breakfast, and Dorothy was standing 
at the window looking out over the Dunes towards 
the sea. Her brother was still seated at the table, 
and had lighted a cigarette. Like many another 
who offers an exaggerated respect to women as a 
whole, he was rather inclined to bohemianism at 
home, and denied to his immediate feminine rela- 
tions the privileges accorded to their sex in general. 
He was older than Dorothy, who had always been 
dependent upon him to a certain extent. She had 
a little money of her own, and quite recognized the 
fact that, should her brother marry, she would have 
109 


RODEN’S CORNER 


to work for her living-. In the mean time, however, 
it suited them both to live together, and Dorothy 
had for her brother that affection of which only 
women are capable. It amounts to an affectionate 
tolerance more than to a tolerant affection. For it 
perceives its object’s little failings with a calm and 
judicial eye. It weighs the man in the balance, and 
finds him wanting. This, moreover, is the lot of a 
large proportion of women. This takes the place 
of that higher feeling which is probably the finest 
emotion of which the human heart is capable. And 
yet there are men who grudge these sufferers their 
petty triumphs, their poor little emancipation, their 
paltry wranglerships, their very bicycles. 

“ You don’t like this place — I know that,” Percy 
Roden was saying, in continuation of a desultory 
conversation. He looked up from the letters before 
him with a smile which was kind enough and a little 
patronizing. Patronage is the armor of the out- 
witted. 

“Not very much,” answered Dorothy, with a laugh. 
“ But I dare say it will be better in the summer.” 

“ I mean this villa,” pursued Roden, flicking the 
ash from his cigarette and leaning back in his chair. 
He had grand, rather tired gestures, which possibly 
impressed some people. Grandeur, however, like 
sentiment, is not indigenous to the hearth. Our 
domestic admirers are not always watching us. Dor- 
othy was looking out of the window. 

“ It is not a bad little place,” she said, practically, 
“ when one has grown accustomed to its sandiness.” 

“ It will not be for long,” said Percy Roden. 

And his sister turned and looked at him with a 
sudden gravity. “ Ah !” she said. 

no 


IN THE OUDE WEG 


“ No ; I have been thinking that it will be better 
for us to move into the Hague — Park Straat or 
Oranje Straat.” 

Dorothy turned and faced him now. There was 
a faint, far-off resemblance between these two, but 
Dorothy had the better face — shrewder, more 
thoughtful, cleverer. Her eyes, instead of being 
large and dark and rather dreamy, were gray and 
speculative. Her features were clear-cut and well 
cut — a face suggestive of feeling and of self-suppres- 
sion, which, when they go together, go to the mak- 
ing of a satisfactory human being. This was a wom- 
an who, to put it quite plainly, would not have been 
held in honor by our grandmothers, but who prom- 
ised well enough for her possible granddaughters ; 
who, when the fads are lived down and the eman- 
cipation is over and the shrieking is done, will make 
a very excellent grandmother to a race of women 
who shall be equal to men and respected of men, 
and, best of all, beloved of men. Wise mothers say 
that their daughters must sooner or later pass 
through an awkward age. Woman is passing through 
an awkward age now, and Dorothy Roden might be 
classed among the few who are doing it gracefully. 

She looked at her brother with those wise gray 
eyes, and did not speak at once. “Oranje Straat 
and Park Straat,” she said, lightly, “cost money.” 

“ Oh, that is all right !” answered her brother, 
carelessly, as one who in his time has handled great 
sums. 

“ Then we are prosperous ?” inquired Dorothy, 
mindful of other great schemes which had not al- 
ways done their duty by their originator. 

“ Oh yes ! We shall make a good thing out of this 
i hi 


RODEN'S CORNER 


Malgamite. The laborer is worthy of his hire, you 
know. There is no reason why we should not take 
a better house than this. Mrs. Vansittart knows of 
one in Park Straat which would suit us. Do you 
like her — Mrs. Vansittart, I mean ?” 

His tone was slightly patronizing again. The 
Malgamite was a success, it appeared, and assuredly 
success is the most difficult emergency that a man 
has to face in life. 

“Very much,” answered Dorothy, quietly. She 
looked hard at her brother ; for Dorothy had long 
ago gauged him, and had recently gauged Mrs. Van- 
sittart with a facility which is quite incomprehen- 
sible to men and easy enough to women. She knew 
that her brother was not the sort of man to arouse 
the faintest spark of love in the heart of such a 
woman as her of whom they spoke. And yet Per- 
cy’s tone implied as clearly as if the words had been 
spoken that he had merely to offer to Mrs. Vansit- 
tart his hand and heart in order to make her the 
happiest of women. Either Dorothy or her brother 
was mistaken in Mrs. Vansittart. Between a man and 
a woman it is usually the man who is mistaken in an 
estimate of another woman. Dorothy was wonder- 
ing, not whether Mrs. Vansittart admired her broth- 
er, but why that lady was taking the trouble to con- 
vey to him that such was the case. 


CHAPTER XII 


SUBURBAN 

“ Le bonheur c'est etre joyeux 


There are in the suburbs of London certain strata 
of men which lie in circles of diminishing density 
around the great city, like debris around a volcano. 
London, indeed, erupts every evening between the 
hours of five and six, and throws out showers of 
tired men, who lie where they fall — or rather where 
their season ticket drops them — until morning, when 
they arise and crowd back again to the seething 
crater. The deposits of small clerks and trades- 
people fall near at hand in a dense shower, bounded 
on the north by Finchley, on the south by Streatham. 
An outer circle of head clerks, government servants, 
junior partners, covers the land in a stratum reach- 
ing as far south as Surbiton, as far north as the Alex- 
andra Palace. And beyond these limits are cast the 
brighter lights of commerce, law, and finance, who 
fall, a thin golden shower, ill the favored neighbor- 
hoods of th^ far suburbs, where, from eventide till 
morning, they play at being country gentlemen, 
talking stock and stable, with minds attuned to share 
and produce. 

Mr. Joseph Wade, banker, was one of those who 
are thrown far afield by the facilities of a fine sub- 
h 113 


RODEN’S CORNER 


urban train service. He wore a frock-coat, a very 
shiny hat, and he read the Times in the train. He 
lived in a staring red house, solid brick without and 
solid comfort within, in the favored pine country of 
Weybridge. He was one of those pillars of the Brit- 
ish Constitution who are laughed at behind their 
backs and eminently respected to their faces. His 
gardeners trembled before him, his coachman, as 
stout and respectable as himself, knew him to be a 
just and a good master, who grudged no man his 
perquisites, and behaved with a fine gentlemanly tact 
at those trying moments when the departing visitor 
is desirous of tipping and the coachman knows that 
it is blessed to receive. 

Mr. Wade rather scorned the amateur country- 
gentleman hobby which so many of his travelling 
companions affected. It led them to don rough 
tweed suits on Sunday, and walk about their pad- 
docks and gardens as if these formed a great es- 
tate. 

“ I am a banker,” he said, with that sound common- 
,sease which led him to avoid those cheap affectations 
of superiority that belong to the outer strata of the 
daily volcanic deposit — “ I am a banker, and I am 
content to be a banker in the evening and on Sun- 
days as well as during bank-hours. What should I 
know about horses or Alderneys or Dorking fowls ? 
None of ’em yield a dividend.” 

Mr. Wade, in fact, looked upon “The Brambles” 
as a place of rest, arriving there at half-past six, in 
time to dress for a very good dinner. After dinner 
he read in a small way by no means to be despised. 
He had a taste for biography, and cherished in his 
stout heart a fine old respect for Thackeray and 
114 


SUBURBAN 


Dickens and Walter Scott. Of the modern fiction- 
ists he knew nothing. 

“ Seems to me they are splitting straws, my dear,” 
he once said to an earnest young person who thought 
that literature meant contemporary fiction, whereas 
we all know that the two are in no way connected. 

Joseph Wade was a widower, having some years 
before buried a wife as stout and sensible as himself. 
He never spoke of her except to his daughter Mar- 
guerite, now leaving school, and usually confined 
his remarks to a consideration of what Marguerite’s 
mother would have liked in the circumstances under 
discussion at the moment. 

Marguerite had been educated at Cheltenham, and 
“ finished ” at Dresden, without any limit as to extras. 
She had come home from Dresden a few months 
before the Malgamite scheme was set on foot, to 
find herself regarded by her father in the light of a 
rather delicate financial crisis. The affection which 
had always existed between father and daughter soon 
developed into something stronger — something vol- 
atile and half mocking on her part, indulgent and 
half mystified on his. 

“ She is rather a handful,” wrote Mr. Wade to Tony 
Cornish, “ and too inconsequent to let my mind be 
easy about her future. I wish you would run down 
and dine and sleep at ‘The Brambles’ some evening 
soon. Monday is Marguerite’s eighteenth birthday. 
Will you come on that evening?” 

“ He is not thirty-three yet,” reflected Mr. Wade, 
as he folded the letter and slipped it into an enve- 
lope, “and she is the sort of girl who must be able 
to give a man her full respect before she can give 
him — er — anything else.” 

”5 


RODEN’S CORNER 


From which it may be perceived that the astute 
banker was preparing to face the delicate financial 
crisis. 

Cornish received the invitation the day after re- 
turning from Holland. Mr. Wade had been his fa- 
ther’s friend and trustee, and was, he understood, 
distantly related to the mother whom Tony had never 
known. Such invitations were not infrequent, and 
it was the recipient’s custom to set aside others in 
order to reply with an acceptance. A friendship 
had sprung up between the two men, who were not 
only divided by a gulf of years, but had hardly a 
thought in common. 

On arriving atWeybridge station, Cornish found 
Marguerite awaiting him in a very high dog-cart 
drawn by an exceedingly shiny cob, which animal 
she proceeded to handle with vast spirit and a blithe 
ignorance. She looked trim and fresh, with bright 
brown hair under a smart sailor hat, and a complex- 
ion almost dazzling in its youthfulness and brillian- 
cy. She nodded gayly at Cornish. 

“ Hop up,” she said, encouragingly / 4 and then hang 
on like grim death. There are going to be — whoa, 
my pet! — er — ructions. All right, William. Let go.” 

William let go and made a dash at the rear step. 
The shiny cob squeaked, stood thoughtfully on his 
hind-legs for a moment, and then dashed across the 
bridge, shaving a cab rather closely, and failing to 
observe a bank of stones at one side of the road. 

“Do you mind this sort of thing?” inquired Mar- 
guerite, as they bumped heavily over the obstruc- 
tion. 

“ Not in the least. Most invigorating, I consider 
it.” 

116 




“‘DO YOU MIND THIS SORT OF THING?’ INQUIRED MARGUERITE 





SUBURBAN 


Marguerite arranged the reins carefully, and in- 
clined the whip at a suitable angle across her com- 
panion’s vision. 

“ I’m learning to drive, you know,” she said, lean- 
ing confidently down from her high seat. “And papa 
thinks that because this young gentleman is rather 
stout he is quiet, which is quite a mistake. Whoa ! 
Steady ! Keep off the grass ! Visitors are request- 
ed to keep to — Well, I’m — ” She hauled the pony 
off the common, whither he had betaken himself, on 
to the road again. “ — blowed !” she added, religious- 
ly completing her unfinished sentence. 

They were now between high fences, and com- 
pelled to progress more steadily. 

“ I am very glad you have come, you know,” Mar- 
guerite took the opportunity of assuring the visitor. 
“ It is jolly slow, I can tell you, at times ; and then 
you will do papa good. He is very difficult to man- 
age. It took me a week to get this pony out of him. 
His great idea is for somebody to marry me. He 
looks upon me as a sort of fund that has to be placed, 
or sunk, or something, somewhere. There was a 
young Scotchman the week before last. I have for- 
gotten his name already. John — something — Fair- 
ly. Yes, that is it — John Fairly of Auchen — some- 
thing. It is better to be John Fairly of Auchen 
something than a belted earl, it appears.” 

“ Did John tell you so himself ?” inquired Tony. 

“Yes; and he ought to know, oughtn’t he? But 
that was what put me on my guard. When a Scotch- 
man begins to tell you who he is, take my advice 
and sheer off.” 

“ I will,” said Tony. 

“And when a Scotchman begins to tell you what 
ii 7 


RODEN’S CORNER 


he has, you may be sure that he wants something 
more. I smelt a rat pretty sharp. And I would 
not speak to him for the rest of the evening, or if I 
did I spoke with a Scotch accent — just a suspeecion 
of an accent, you know — nothing to get hold of, but 
just enough to let him know that his Auchen some- 
thing would not go down with me.” 

She spoke with a sort of inconsequent earnestness, 
a relic of the school-days she had so lately left be- 
hind. She did not seem to have had time to decide 
whether life was a rattling farce or a matter of dead- 
ly earnest. And who shall blame her, remembering 
that older heads than hers are no clearer on that 
point ? 

On approaching the red villa by its short entrance- 
drive of yellow gravel, they perceived Mr. Wade 
slowly walking in his garden. The garden of “ The 
Brambles” was exactly the sort of garden one would 
expect to find attached to a house of that name. It 
was chiefly conspicuous for its lack of bramble, or 
indeed of any vegetable of such disorderly habit. 
Yellow gravel walks intersected smooth lawns. April 
having drawn almost to its close, there were thin red 
lines of tulips standing at attention all along the 
flowery borders. Not a stalk was out of place. One 
suspected that the flowers had been drilled by a mar- 
tinet of a gardener. The sight of an honest weed 
would have been a relief to the eye. The curse of 
too much gardener and too little nature lay over the 
land. 

“Ah!” said Mr. Wade, holding out a large white 
hand. “ You perceive me inspecting the garden, and 
if you glance in the direction of McPherson’s cottage 
you will perceive McPherson watching me. I pay 
1 1 8 


SUBURBAN 

him a hundred and twenty, and he knows that it is 
too much.” 

“ By the way, papa,” put in Marguerite, gravely, 
“ will you tell McPherson that he will receive a 
month’s notice if he counts the peaches this summer, 
as he did last year ?” 

Mr. Wade laughed, and promised her a freer hand 
in this matter. They walked in the trim garden 
until it was time to dress for dinner, and Cornish 
saw enough to convince him that Mr. Wade was 
fully occupied between banking hours in his capac- 
ity as Marguerite’s father. 

That young lady came down as the bell rang, in a 
white dress as fresh and girlish as herself, and dur- 
ing the meal, which was long and somewhat solemn, 
entertained the guest with considerable liveliness. 
It was only after she had left them to their wine, 
over which the banker loved to linger in the old- 
fashioned way, that Mr. Wade put on his grave, 
financial air. He fingered his glass thoughtfully, 
as if choosing, not a subject of conversation, but a 
suitable way of approaching a premeditated ques- 
tion. 

“ You do not recollect your mother ?” he said, 
suddenly. 

“ No ; she died when I was two years old.” 

Mr. Wade nodded, and slowly sipped his port. 

“ Queer thing is,” he said, after a pause, and look- 
ing towards the door, “ that that child is startlingly 
like what your mother used to be at the age of eigh- 
teen, when I first knew her. Perhaps it is only my 
imagination — not that I have much of that. Per- 
haps all girls are alike at that age— a sort of fresh- 
ness and an optimism that positively take one’s breath 
119 


RODEN’S CORNER 


away. At any rate, she reminds me of your mother.” 
He broke off and looked at Cornish with his slow 
and rather ponderous smile. His attitude towards 
the world was indeed one of conscious ponderosity. 
He did not attempt to understand the lighter side of 
life, but took it seriously as a work-a-day matter. 
“ I was once in love with your mother,” he stated, 
squarely. “ But circumstances were against us. You 
see, your father was a lord’s younger brother, and 
that made a great difference in Clapham in those 
days. I felt it a good deal at the time, but I, of 
course, got over it years and years ago. No senti- 
ment about me, Tony. Sentiment and seventeen 
stone won’t balance, you know.” The great man 
slowly drew the decanter towards him. “ She got a 
better husband in your father — a clever, bright chap 
— and I was best man, I recollect. It was about that 
time — about your age I was — that I took seriously 
to my work. Before, I had been a little wild. And 
that interest has lasted me right up to the present 
time. Take my word for it, Tony, the greatest in- 
terest in life would be money-making — if one only 
knew what to do with the money afterwards.” The 
banker had been eating a biscuit, and he now swept 
the crumbs together with his little finger from all 
sides in a lessening circle until they formed a heap 
upon the white table-cloth. “It accumulates,” he 
said, slowly, “ accumulates, accumulates. And, after 
all, one can only eat and drink the best that is to be 
obtained, and the best costs so little — a mere drop 
in the ocean.” He handed Tony the decanter as he 
spoke. “ Then I married Marguerite’s mother, some 
years afterwards, when I was a middle-aged man. 
She was the only daughter of— the bank, you know.” 

120 


SUBURBAN 


And that seemed to be all that there was to be ’ 
said about Marguerite’s mother. 

Tony Cornish nodded in his quick, sympathetic 
way. Mr. Wade had told him none of this before, 
but it was to be presumed that he had heard at least 
part of it from other sources. His manner now in- 
dicated that he was interested, but did not ask his 
companion to say one word more than he felt dis- 
posed to say. It is probable that he knew these to 
be. no idle after-dinner words, spoken without pre- 
meditation, out of a full heart ; for Mr. Wade was 
not, as he had boasted, a person of sentiment, but a 
plain, straightforward business man, who, if he had 
no meaning to convey, said nothing. And in this 
respect it is a pity that more are not like him. 

“ We have always been pretty good friends, you 
and I,” continued the banker, “ though I know I am 
not exactly your sort. I am distinctly City ; you are 
as distinctly West End. But during your minority, 
and when we settled up accounts on your coming of 
age, and since then, we have always hit it off pretty 
well.” 

“ Yes,” said Cornish, moving his feet impatiently 
under the table. There was no mistaking the aim 
of all this, and Mr. Wade was too British in his hab- 
its to beat about the bush much longer. 

“ I do not mind telling you that I have got you 
down in my will,” said the banker. 

Cornish bit his lip and frowned at his wineglass. 
And it is possible that the man of no sentiment un- 
derstood his silence. 

“ I have frequently disbelieved what I have heard 
of you,” went on the elder man. “ You have, doubt- 
less, enemies — as all men have — and you have been 
1 21 


RODEN’S CORNER 


a trifle reckless, perhaps, of what the world might 
say. If you will allow me to say so, I think none 
the worse of you for that.” 

Mr. Wade pushed the decanter across the table, 
and, when Cornish had filled his glass, drew it back 
towards himself. It is wonderful what resource there 
is in half a glass of wine, if merely to examine when 
it is hard to look elsewhere. 

“ You remember, six months ago I spoke to you 
of a personal matter,” said the banker. “ I asked 
you if you had thoughts of marrying, and suggested 
something in the nature of a partnership if that 
would facilitate your plans in any way.” 

“ That is not the sort of offer one is likely to for- 
get,” answered Cornish. 

“ I asked you if — well, if it was Joan Ferriby.” 

“ Yes. And I answered that it was not Joan Fer- 
riby. That was mere gossip, of which we are both 
aware, and for which neither of us cares a damn.” 

“ Then it comes to this,” said Mr. Wade, drawing 
lines on the table-cloth with his dessert-knife, as if 
it were a balance-sheet and he was casting the final 
totals there : “ You are a man of the world ; you are 
clever ; you are like your father before you in that 
you have something that women care about. Heaven 
only knows what it is, for I don’t !” He paused and 
looked at his companion as if seeking that intangible 
something. Then he jerked his head towards the 
drawing-room, where Marguerite could be dimly 
heard playing an air from the latest comic opera 
with a fine contempt for accidentals. “ That child,” 
he said, “ knows no more about life than a sparrow. 
A man like myself — seventeen stone — may have to 
balance his books at any moment. You have a clear 
122 


SUBURBAN 


field ; for you may take my word for it that you will 
be the first in it. My own experience of life has been 
mostly financial, but I am pretty certain that the 
first man a woman cares for is the man she cares 
for all along, though she may never see him again. 
I don’t hold it out as an inducement, but there is no 
reason why you should not know that she will have 
a hundred and fifty thousand pounds — not when I 
am dead, but on the day she marries.” Mr. Wade 
paused and took a sip of his most excellent port. 
“ Do not hurry,” he said. “ Take your time. Think 
about it carefully — unless you have already thought 
about it, and can say yes or no now.” 

“ I can do that.” 

Mr. Wade bent forward heavily, with one arm on 
the table. “Ah!” he said. “Which is it?” 

“ It is no,” answered Cornish, simply. 

The banker passed his table-napkin across his lips, 
paused for a moment, and then rose with, as was his 
hospitable custom, his hand upon the sherry-decan- 
ter. “ Then let us go into the drawing-room,” he 
said. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE MAKING OF A MAN 

‘ 1 Heureux celui qui riest forci de sacrijier personne h son devoir ” 

“ You know,” said Marguerite the next morning, 
as she and Cornish rode quietly along the silent, 
sandy roads, beneath the shade of the pines — “you 
know, papa is such a jolly, simple old dear — he doesn’t 
understand women in the least.” 

“And do you call yourself a woman nowadays?” 
inquired Cornish. 

“You bet. Bet those gray hairs of yours, if you 
like. I see them ! All down one side.” 

“ They are all down both sides, and on the top as 
well, my good — woman. How does your father fail 
to understand you ?” 

“Well, to begin with, he thinks it necessary to 
have Miss Williams, to housekeep and chaperon, and 
to do oddments generally — as if I couldn’t run the 
show myself. You haven’t seen Miss Williams — oh 
my 1 She has gone to Cheltenham for a holiday, 
for which you may thank your eternal stars. She 
is just the sort of person who would go to Chelten- 
ham. Then papa is desperately keen about my mar- 
rying. He keeps trotting likely young partis down 
here to dine and sleep — that’s why you are here, I 
haven’t a shadow of a doubt. None of the young 
124 


THE MAKING OF A MAN 


partis have passed muster yet. Poor old thing, he 
thinks I do not see through his little schemes.” 

Cornish laughed, and glanced at Marguerite under 
the shade of his straw hat, wondering, as men have 
probably wondered since the ages began, how it is 
that women seem to begin life with as great a knowl- 
edge of the world as we manage to acquire towards 
the end of our experience. Marguerite made her 
statements with a certain careless “aplomb,” and 
these were usually within measurable distance of the 
fact ; whereas a youth her age, and ten years older, 
if he be of a didactic turn, will hold forth upon life 
and human nature with an ignorance of both which 
is positively appalling 

“Now I don’t want to marry,” said Marguerite, 
suddenly returning to her younger and more earnest 
manner. “ What is the good of marrying ?” 

“What indeed?” echoed Cornish. 

“Well, then, if papa tackles you — about me, I 
mean — when he has done the Times — he won’t say 
anything before, the Times being the first object in 
papa’s existence, and yours very truly the second — 
just you choke him off — won’t you ?” 

“ I will.” 

“ Promise.” 

“ Promise faithfully.” 

“ That’s all right. Now tell me — is my hat on one 
side ?” 

Cornish assured her that her hat was straight, and 
then they talked of other things until they came to 
a ditch suitable for some jumping-lessons, which he 
had promised to give her. 

She was bewilderingly changeable — at one moment 
childlike, and in the next very wise — now a heed- 
125 


RODEN’S- CORNER 


less girl, and a moment later a keen woman of the 
world — appearing to know more of that abode of 
evil than she well could. Her color came and went 
— her very eyes seemed to change. Cornish thought 
of this open field which Marguerite’s father had 
offered, and perhaps he thought of the hundred and 
fifty thousand pounds that lay beneath so bright a 
surface. 

On returning to the “ Brambles ” they found Mr. 
Wade reading the Times in the glass-covered veran- 
da of that eligible suburban mansion. It being a 
Saturday, the great banker was taking a holiday, 
and Cornish had arranged not to return to town un- 
til mid-day. 

“Come here,’’ shouted Mr. Wade, “and have a 
cigar while you read the paper.” 

“And remember,” added Marguerite, slim and 
girlish in her riding-habit — “choke him off !” 

She stood on the door -step, looking over her 
shoulder, and nodded at Cornish, her fresh lips tilted 
at the corner by a smile full of gayety and mysti- 
cism. 

“ Read that,” said Mr. Wade, gravely. 

But Mr. Wade was always grave — was clad in 
gravity and a frock-coat all his waking moments — 
and Cornish took up the newspaper carelessly. He 
stretched out his legs and lighted a cigar. Then he 
leisurely turned to the column indicated by his com- 
panion. It was headed, “ Crisis in the Paper Trade : 
the Malgamite Corner.” 

And Tony Cornish did not raise his eyes from the 
printed sheet for a full ten minutes. When at length 
he looked up he found Mr. Wade watching him, 
placid and patient. 


126 


CRISIS IN THE PAPER TRADE : THE MALGAMITE CORNER 




I 










THE MAKING OF A MAN 

“ Can’t make head or tail of it,” he said, with a 
laugh. 

“I will make both head and tail of it for you,” 
said Mr. Wade, who in his own world had a certain 
reputation for plain-speaking. It was even said that 
this stout banker could tell a man to his face that 
he was a scoundrel with a cooler nerve than any in 
Lombard Street. 

“ What has occurred,” he said, slowly folding the 
advertisement sheet of the Times , “ is only what has 
been foreseen for a long time. The world has been 
degenerating into a maudlin state of sentiment for 
some years. The East End began it ; a thousand 
sentimental charities have fostered the movement. 
Now I am a plain man — a City man, Tony, to the 
tips of my toes.” And he stuck out a square-toed 
foot. “ Half of your precious charities — the socie- 
ties that you and Joan Ferriby, and, if you will al- 
low me to say so, that ass Ferriby, are mixed up 
in — are not fraudulent, but they are pretty near it. 
Some people who have no right to it are putting 
other people’s money into their pockets. It is the 
money of fools — a fool and his money are soon parted, 
you know — but that does not make matters any 
better. The fools do not always part with their 
money for the right reason ; but that also is of small 
importance. It is not our business if some of them 
do it because they like to see their names printed 
under the names of the royal and the great — if others 
do it for the mere satisfaction of being life governors 
of this and that institution — if others, again, head 
the county lists because they represent a part of 
that county in Parliament — if the large majority 
give of their surplus to charities because they are 
127 


RODEN’S CORNER 


dimly aware that they are no better than they should 
be, and wish to take shares in a concern that will 
pay a dividend in the future. They know that they 
cannot take their money out of this world with them, 
so they think they had better invest some of it in 
what they vaguely understand to be a great limited 
company, with the Bishops on the board, and — I say 
it with all reverence — the Almighty in the chair. I 
would not say this to the first comer, because it 
would not be well received, and it is not fashionable 
to treat charity from a common-sense point of view. 
It is fashionable to send a check to this and that 
charity — feeling that it is charity, and therefore will 
be all right, and that the check will be duly placed 
on the credit side of the drawer’s account in the 
heavenly books, however it may be foolishly spent 
or fraudulently appropriated by the payee on earth. 
Half a dozen of the fashionable charities are rotten, 
but we have not had a thorough-going swindle up 
to this time. We have been waiting for it — in Lom- 
bard Street. It is there. . . .” 

He paused and tapped the printed columns of the 
Times with a fat and inexorable forefinger. He was, 
it must be remembered, a mere banker — a person in 
the City, where honesty is esteemed above the finer 
qualities of charity and beneficence, where soul and 
sentiment are so little known that he who of his 
charity giveth away another’s money is held account- 
able for his manner of spending it. 

“It is there — and you have the honor of being 
mixed up in it,” said Mr. Wade. 

Cornish took up the paper and looked at the 
printed words with a vague surprise. 

“ There is no knowing,” went on the banker, “ how 
128 


THE MAKING OF A MAN 


the world will take it. It is one of our greatest 
financial difficulties that there is never any knowing 
how the world will take anything. Of course we in 
the City are plain-going men who have no handles 
to our names and no time for the fashionable fads. 
We are only respectable, and we cannot afford to be 
mixed up in such a scheme as your Malgamite busi- 
ness.” Mr. Wade glanced at Cornish and paused a 
moment. He was a stolid Englishman, who had re- 
ceived punishment in his time, and could hit hard 
when he deemed that hard hitting was merciful. 
“ It has only been a question of time. The credulity 
of the public is such that sooner or later a bogus 
charity must assuredly have followed in the wake 
of the thousand bogus companies that exist to-day. 
I only wonder that it has not come sooner. You 
and Ferriby and, of course, the women have been 
swindled, my dear Tony — that is the head and the 
tail of it.” 

Cornish laughed gayly. “I dare say we have,” 
he admitted. “ But I will be hanged if I see what 
it all means, now.” 

“ It may mean ruin to those who have anything 
to lose,” explained Mr. Wade, calmly. “ The whole 
thing has been cleverly planned — one of the clever- 
est things of recent years — and the man who thought 
it out had the makings of a great financier in him. 
What he wanted to do was to get the Malgamite in- 
dustry into his own hands. If he had formed a com- 
pany and gone about it in a straightforward man- 
ner, the paper-makers of the whole world would have 
risen like one man and smashed him. Instead of 
that he moved with the times, and ran the thing as 
a charity — a fashionable amusement, in fact. The 

i 129 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Malgamite industry is neither better nor worse than 
the other dangerous trades, and no man need go 
into it unless he likes. But the man who started 
this thing — whoever he may be — supplied that pict- 
uresqueness without which the public cannot be 
moved — and lo ! we have an army of martyrs.” 

Mr. Wade paused and jerked the ash from his 
cigar. He glanced at Cornish. 

“ No one suspected that there was anything wrong. 
It was plausibly put forth, and Ferriby — did his 
best for it. Then the money began to come in, 
and once money begins to come in for a fashionable 
charity, the difficulty is to stop it. I suppose it is 
still coming in.” 

“Yes,” said Cornish. “It is still coming in — and 
nobody is trying to stop it.” 

Mr. Wade laughed in his throat, as fat men do. 

“And,” he cried, sitting upright and banging his 
heavy fist down on the arm of his chair — “ and there 
are millions in your Malgamite works at the Hague 
— millions. If it were only honest, it would be the 
finest monopoly the world has ever seen — for two 
years, but no longer. At the end of that period the 
paper-makers will have had time to combine and 
make their own stuff — then they’ll smash you. But 
during those two years all the makers in the world 
will have to buy your Malgamite at the price you 
choose to put upon it. They have their forward con- 
tracts to fulfil — government contracts, Indian con- 
tracts, newspaper contracts. Thousands and thou- 
sands of tons of paper will have to be manufactured 
at a loss every week during the next two years, or 
they’ll have to shut up their mills. Now do you see 
where you are ?” 


130 


THE MAKING OF A MAN 


“Yes,” answered Cornish. “I see where I am, 
now.” 

His face was drawn and his eyes hard, like those of 
a man facing ruin. And that which was written on 
his face was an old story, so old that some may not 
think it worth the telling ; for he had found out (as 
all who are fortunate will sooner or later discover) 
that success or failure, riches or poverty, greatness 
or obscurity, are but small things in a man’s life. 
Mr. Wade looked at his companion with a sort of 
wonder in his shrewd old face. He had seen ruined 
men before now — he had seen criminals convicted of 
their wrong-doing — he had seen old and young in 
adversity, and, what is more dangerous still, in pros- 
perity — but he had never seen a young face grow 
old in the twinkling of an eye. The banker was only 
thinking of this matter as a financial crisis, in which 
his consummate skill made him take a master’s de- 
light. There must inevitably come a great crash, 
and Mr. Wade’s interest was aroused. Cornish was 
realizing that the crash would of a certainty fall be- 
tween himself and Dorothy. 

“This thing,” continued the banker, judicially, 
“ has not evolved itself. It is not 'the result of a 
singuJar chain of circumstances. It is the deliberate 
and careful work of one man’s brain. This sort of 
speculative gambling comes to us from America. It 
was in America that the first cotton corner was con- 
ceived. That is what the paper means when it plain- 
ly calls it the Malgamite Corner. Now, what I want 
to know is this — who has worked this thing ?” 

“Percy Roden,” answered Cornish, thoughtfully. 
“ It is Roden’s Corner.” 

“Then Roden’s a clever fellow,” said the great 

131 


RODEN’S CORNER 

financier. “ The sort of man who will die a million- 
aire or a felon — there is no medium for that sort. 
He has conducted the thing with consummate skill 
— has not made a mistake yet. For I have watched 
him. He began well, by saying just enough and not 
too much. He went abroad, but not too far abroad. 
He avoided a suspicious remoteness. Then he bode 
his time with a fine patience, and at the right mo- 
ment converted it quietly into a company — with a 
capital subscribed by the charitable — a splendid piece 
of audacity. I saw the announcement in the news- 
paper, neatly worded and issued at the precise mo- 
ment when the public interest was beginning to 
wane, and before the thing was forgotten. People 
read it, and, having found a new plaything — bicycles, 
I suppose — did not care two pins what became of the 
Malgamite scheme, and yet they were not left in a 
position to be able to say that they had never heard 
that the thing had been turned into a company.” 
The banker rubbed his large soft hands together 
with a cynical appreciation of this misapplied skill 
which so few could recognize at its full value. “ But,” 
he continued, in his deliberate, practical way, as if in 
the course of his experience he had never yet met a 
difficulty which could not be overcome, “ it is more 
our concern to think about the future. The diffi- 
culty you are in would be bad enough in itself — it is 
made a hundred times worse by the fact that you 
have a man like Roden, with all the trumps in his 
hand, waiting for you to throw the first card. Of 
course I know no details yet, but I soon shall. What 
seems complicated to you may appear simple enough 
to me. I am going to stand by you — understand 
that, Tony. Through thick and thin. But I am 
132 


THE MAKING OF A MAN 


going to stand behind you. I can hit harder from 
there. And this is just one of those affairs with 
which my name must not be associated. So far as 
I can judge at present there seems to be only one 
course open to you, and that is to abandon the whole 
affair as quietly and expeditiously as possible, to drop 
Malgamite and the hope of benefiting the Malga- 
mite-workers once and for all.” 

Tony was looking at his watch. It was, it ap- 
peared, time for him to go, if he wanted to catch his 
train. 

“ No,” he said, rising. “ I will be damned if I do 
that.” 

Mr. Wade looked at him curiously, as one may 
look at a sleeper who for no apparent reason sudden- 
ly wakes and stretches himself. 

“Ah !” he said, slowly, and that was all. 


CHAPTER XIV 


UNSOUND 

“ That tu / rich is .. . exceeding deep , who can find it out?” 

If Major White was not a man of quick compre- 
hension, he was, at all events, honest in his density. 
He never said that he understood when he did not 
do so. When he received a telegram in barracks 
at Dover to come up to London the next day and 
meet Cornish at his club at one o’clock, the Major 
merely said that he was in a state of condemnation, 
and, fixing his glass very carefully into his more sur- 
prised eye, studied the thin pink paper as if it was a 
unique and interesting proof of the advance of the 
human race. In truth, Major White never sent tele- 
grams, and rarely received them. He blew out his 
cheeks and said a second time that he was damned. 
Then he threw the telegram into the waste -paper 
basket, which was rarely put to so legitimate a use ; 
for the Major never wrote letters if he could help it, 
and received so few that they hardly kept him sup- 
plied in pipe-lights. 

He apparently had no intention of replying to 
Cornish’s telegram, arguing very philosophically in 
his mind that he would go if he could, and if he 
could not it would not matter very much — a method 
of contemplating life, as a picture with a perspective 
134 


UNSOUND 


to it, which may be highly recommended to fussy 
people who herald their paltry little comings and 
goings by a number of unnecessary communica- 
tions. 

Without, therefore, attempting a surmise as to the 
meaning of this summons, White took a morning 
train to London, and solemnly reported himself to 
the hall porter of a club in St. James’s Street, as the 
well-dressed throng was leisurely returning from 
church. 

“ Mr. Cornish told me to come and have lunch 
with him,” he said, in his usual bald style, leaving 
explanations and superfluous questions to such as 
had time for luxuries of that description. 

He was taken charge of by a button -boy whose 
head reached the Major’s lowest waistcoat button, 
was deprived of his hat and stick, and practically 
commanded to wash his hands, to all of which he 
submitted under stolid and silent protest. 

Then he was led up-stairs, refusing absolutely to 
hurry, although urged most strongly thereto by the 
boy’s example and manner of pausing a few steps 
higher up and looking back. 

“ Yes,” said the Major, when he had heard Cornish’s 
story across the table, and during the consumption 
of a perfectly astonishing luncheon — “yes ; half the 
trouble in this world comes from the incapacity of 
the ordinary human being to mind his own business.” 
He operated on a creamy Camembert cheese with 
much thoughtfulness, and then spoke again. “I 
should like you to tell me,” he said, “what a couple 
of idiots like we are have to do with these confounded 
Malgamiters. We do not know anything about in- 
dustry or workmen — or work, so far as that goes ” — 
i35 


RODEN’S CORNER 


he paused and looked severely across the table — 
“ especially you,” he added. 

Which was strictly true ; for Tony Cornish was 
and always had been a graceful idler. He was of 
those unfortunate men who possess influential rel- 
atives, than which there are few heavier handicaps 
in that game of life where, if there be any real scor- 
ing to be done, it must be compassed off one’s own 
bat. To follow out the same inexpensive simile, in- 
fluential relatives may get a man into a crack club, 
but they cannot elect him to the first eleven. So 
Tony Cornish, who had never done anything, but 
had waited vaguely for something to turn up that 
might be worth his while to seize, had no answer 
ready, and only laughed gayly in his friend’s face. 

“ The first thing we must do,” he said, very wisely 
leaving the past to take care of itself, “ is to get old 
Ferriby out of it.” 

“’Cos he is a lord ?” 

“Partly.” 

“ ’Cos he is an ass !” suggested White, as a plausi- 
ble alternative. 

“ Partly — but chiefly because he is not the sort of 
man we want if there is going to be a fight.” 

A momentary light gleamed in the Major’s bovine 
eye, but it immediately gave place to a placid inter- 
est in the Camembert. 

“ If there is going to be a fight,” he said, “ I’m on.” 

In which trivial remark the Major explained his 
whole life and mental attitude. And if the world 
only listened, instead of thinking what effect it is 
creating and what it is going to say next, it would 
catch men thus giving themselves away in their daily 
talk from morning till night. For Major White had 
136 


UNSOUND 


always been “ on ” when there was fighting. By 
dint of exchanging and volunteering and asking, and 
generally bothering people in a thick-skinned, dull 
way, he always managed to get to the front, where 
his competitors — the handful of modern knights- 
errant who mean to make a career in the army, and 
inevitably succeed — were not afraid of him, and 
laughingly liked him. And the barrack-room bal- 
ladists had discovered that White rhymes with Fight. 
And lo ! another man had made a name for himself 
in a world that is already too full of names, so that 
in the paths of Fame the great must necessarily fall 
against each other. 

After luncheon, in the smaller smoking-room, 
where they were alone, Cornish explained the situa- 
tion at greater length to Major White, who did not 
even pretend to understand it. 

“ All I can make of it is that that loose-shouldered 
chap Roden is a scoundrel,” he said, bluntly, from 
behind a great cigar, “ and wants thumping. Now 
if there’s anything in that line — ” 

“ No ; but you must not tell him so,” interrupted 
Cornish. “ I wish to goodness I could make you 
understand that cunning can only be met by cun- 
ning — not by thumps — in these degenerate days. 
Old Wade has taken us by the hand, as I tell you. 
They come to town, by the way, to-morrow, and will 
be in Eaton Square for the rest of the season. He 
says that it is his business to meet the low cunning 
of the small solicitors and the noble army of com- 
pany promoters, and it seems that he knows exactly 
what to do. At any rate, it is not expedient to 
thump Roden.” 

Major White shrugged his shoulders with much 
i37 


RODEN’S CORNER 


silent wisdom. He believed, it appeared, in thumps 
in face of any evidence in favor of milder methods. 

“ I’m deuced sorry for that girl,” he said. 

Cornish was lighting a cigarette. “ What girl ?” 
he asked, quietly. 

“ Miss Roden — chap’s sister. She knows her broth- 
er is a dark horse, but she wouldn’t admit it, not if 
you were to kill her for it. Women — ” The Major 
paused in his great wisdom and looked at his own 
boots, which, it may be mentioned in passing, were 
just one size larger than the bootmakers usually 
keep in stock. “Women are a rum lot.” 

Which, assuredly, no one is prepared to deny. 

Cornish glanced at his companion through the 
cigarette smoke and said nothing. 

“ However,” continued the Major, “ I am at your 
service. Let us have the orders.” 

“ To-morrow,” answered Cornish, “ is Monday, and 
therefore the Ferribys will be at home. You and I 
are to go to Cambridge Terrace about four o’clock to 
see his lordship. We will scare him out of the Mal- 
gamite business. Then we shall go up - stairs and 
settle matters with Joan. Wade and Marguerite will 
drop in about half past four. Joan and Marguerite 
see a good deal of each other, you know. If we have 
any difficulty with my uncle, Wade will give him the 
coup de grace , you understand. His word will have 
more weight than ours. We shall then settle on a 
plan of campaign and clear out of my aunt’s draw- 
ing-room before the crowd comes.” 

“ And you will do the talking,” stipulated Major 
White. 

“ Oh yes, I will do the talking. And now I must 
be off. I have a lot of calls to pay, and it is getting 
138 


UNSOUND 


late. You will find me here to-morrow afternoon at 
a quarter to four.” 

Whereupon Major White took his departure, to ap- 
pear again the next day in good time, placid and de- 
bonair — as he had appeared in various parts of the 
world where things were stirring, when called upon. 

They took a hansom, for the afternoon was show- 
ery, and drove through the crowded streets. Even 
Cambridge Terrace, usually a quiet thoroughfare, 
was astir with traffic, for it was the height of the 
season and a levee day. As the cab swung round 
into Cambridge Terrace, White suddenly pushed his 
stick up through the trap-door in the roof of the 
vehicle. 

“Ninety-nine!” he shouted to the driver, in his 
great voice. “ Not eighty-nine.” 

Then he threw himself back against the dingy 
blue cushions. 

Cornish turned and looked at him in surprise. 

“ Gone off your head ?” he inquired. “ It is eighty- 
nine — you know that well enough.” 

“ Yes,” answered White, “ I know that ; but you 
could not see the door of eighty -nine as I could 
when we came round the corner. Roden and Von 
Holzen are on the steps, coming out.” 

“ Roden and Von Holzen in England ?” 

“ Not only in England,” said White, placidly, 
“but in Cambridge Terrace. And” — he paused, 
seeking a suitable remark among his small selection 
of conversational remants — “and the fat is in the 
fire.” 

The cab had now stopped at the door of No. 99. 
And if Roden or Von Holzen, walking leisurely 
down Cambridge Terrace, had turned during the 
139 


RODEN’S CORNER 


next few moments, he would have seen a station- 
ary hansom-cab, with a large round face, like a pink 
harvest-moon, rising cautiously over the roof of it, 
watching them. 

When the coast was clear, Cornish and White 
walked back to No. 89. Lord Ferriby was at home, 
and they were ushered into his study, an apartment 
which, like many other things appertaining to his 
lordship, was calculated to convey an erroneous im- 
pression. There were books upon the tables — the 
lives of great and good men. Pamphlets relating to 
charitable matters, missionary matters, and a thou- 
sand schemes for the amelioration of the human lot, 
here and hereafter, lay about in profusion. This 
was obviously the den of a great philanthropist. 

His lordship presently appeared, carrying a num- 
ber of voting-papers, which he threw carelessly on 
the table. He was, it seemed, a subscriber to many 
institutions for the blind, the maimed, and the halt. 

“Ah !” he said, “ I generally get through my work 
in the morning, but I find myself behindhand to-day. 
It is wonderful,” he added, directing his conversa- 
tion and his benevolent gaze towards White, “how 
busy an idle man may be.” 

“ M — m — yes !” answered the Major, with his stolid 
stare. 

Cornish broke what threatened to be an awkward 
silence by referring at once to the subject in hand. 

“ It seems,” he began, “ that this Malgamite scheme 
is not what we took it to be.” 

Lord Ferriby looked surprised and slightly scan- 
dalized. Could it be possible for a fashionable char- 
ity to be anything but what it appeared to be ? In 
his eyes, wandering from one face to the other, there 
140 



4 NOT EIGHTY-NINE' " 


‘‘‘NINETY-NINE,’ HE SHOUTED. 





































UNSOUND 


lurked the question as to whether they had seen 
Roden and Von Holzen quit his door a minute ear- 
lier. But no reference was made to those two gen- 
tlemen, and Lord Ferriby, who, as a chairman of 
many boards, was a master of the art of conciliation 
and the decent closing of both eyes to unsightly 
facts, received Cornish’s suggestion with a polite 
and avuncular pooh-pooh. 

“We must not,” he said, soothingly, “ allow our 
judgment to be hastily affected by the ill-considered 
statements of the — er — newspapers. Such state- 
ments, my dear Anthony — and you, Major White — 
are, I may tell you, only what we, as the pioneers of 
a great movement, must be prepared to expect. I 
saw the article in the Times to which you refer — in- 
deed, I read it most carefully, as, in my capacity of 
chairman of this — eh — char — that is to say, com- 
pany, I was called upon to do. And I formed the 
opinion that the mind of the writer was — eh — 
warped.” 

Lord Ferriby smiled sadly, and gave a final wave 
of the hand as if to indicate that the whole matter 
lay in a nutshell, and that nutshell under his lord- 
ship’s heel. 

“Warped or not,” answered Cornish, “the man 
says that we have formed ourselves into a company, 
which company is bound to make huge profits, and 
those profits are naturally assumed to find their way 
into our pockets.” 

“ My dear Anthony,” replied the chairman, with a 
laugh which was almost a cackle, “the laborer is 
worthy of his hire.” 

Which misapplied axiom is likely to become the 
dernier cri of the overpaid throughout all the ages. 

141 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“Even if we contradict the statement,” pursued 
Cornish, with a sudden coldness in his manner, “ the 
contradiction will probably fail to reach many of the 
readers of this article, and as matters at present stand 
I do not see that we are in a position to contradict.” 

“ My dear Anthony,” answered Lord Ferriby, 
turning over his papers with a preoccupied air, as if 
the question under discussion only called for a small 
share of his attention — “my dear Anthony, the 
money was subscribed for the amelioration of the 
lot of the Malgamite - workers. We have not only 
ameliorated their lot, but we have elevated them 
morally and physically. We have far exceeded our 
promises, and the subscribers, who, after all, take a 
small interest in the matter, have every reason to 
be satisfied that their money has been applied to 
the purpose for which they intended it. They were 
kind enough to intrust us with the financial arrange- 
ments. The concern is a private one, and it is the 
business of no one — not even of the Times — to in- 
quire into the method which we think well to adopt 
for the administration of the Malgamite Fund. If 
the subscribers had no confidence in us they surely 
would not have given the management unreservedly 
into our hands.” 

Lord Ferriby spread out the limbs in question 
with an easy laugh. Has not a greater than any of 
us said that a man “ may smile, and smile, and be a 
villain ”? 

A silence followed, which was almost, but not 
quite, broken by the Major, who took his glass from 
his eye, examined it very carefully, as if wondering 
how it had been made, and, replacing it with a deep 
sigh, sat staring at the opposite wall. 

142 


UNSOUND 


“ Then you are not disposed to withdraw your 
name from the concern ?” asked Cornish. 

“Most certainly not — my dear Anthony. What 
have the Malgamiters done that I should, so to speak, 
abandon them at the first difficulty which has pre- 
sented itself ?” 

“ And what about the profits ?” inquired Cornish, 
bluntly. 

“ Mr. Roden is our paid secretary. He under- 
stands the financial situation, which is rather a com- 
plicated one. We may, I think, leave such details to 
him. And if I may suggest (I may perhaps rightly 
lay claim to a somewhat larger experience in chari- 
table finances than either of you), I should recom- 
mend a strict reticence on this matter. We are not 
called upon to answer idle questions, I think. And 
if — well — if the laborer is found worthy of his hire — 
buy yourself a new hat, my dear Anthony. Buy your- 
self a new hat.” 

Cornish rose and looked at his watch. 

“I wonder if Joan will give us a cup of tea?” he 
said. “ We might, at all events, go up and try.” 

“ Certainly — certainly. And I will follow when I 
have finished my work. And do not give the mat- 
ter another thought — either of you — eh ?” 

“ He’s been got at,” said Major White to his com- 
panion as they walked up-stairs together, as if Lord 
Ferriby was a jockey or some common person of that 
sort. “ He’s been got at.” 


CHAPTER XV 


PLAIN SPEAKING 

‘ ‘ II est rare que la tite des rois soit faite a la mesure de leur cou- 
ronne ” 

U- . - ' ■ . 

“What I want is something to eat,” Miss Mar- 
guerite Wade confided in an undertone to Tony 
Cornish a few minutes later in Lady Ferriby’s draw- 
ing-room. She said this with a little glance of amuse- 
ment, as Cornish stood before her with two plates 
of biscuits which certainly did not promise much 
sustenance. 

“Then,” answered Cornish, “you have come to the 
wrong house.” 

Marguerite kept him waiting while she arranged 
biscuits in her saucer. He set the plates aside and 
returned to her in answer to her tacit order, con- 
veyed by laying one hand on a vacant chair by her 
side. Marguerite was in the midst of that brief 
period of a woman’s life wherein she dares to state 
quite clearly what she wants. 

“Why don’t you marry Joan?” she asked, eating 
a biscuit with a fine young optimism which almost 
implied that things taste as nice as they look. 

“ Why don’t you marry Major White ?” retorted 
Tony, and Marguerite turned and looked at him 
gravely. 


144 


PLAIN SPEAKING 


“ For a man,” she said, “ that wasn’t so dusty. So 
few men have any eyes in their head, you know.” 
And she thoughtfully finished the biscuits. 

“ I think I’ll go back to the bread-and-butter,” she 
said. “ It’s the last time Lady Ferriby will ask me 
to stay to tea, so I may as well be hanged for — 
threepence as three farthings. And I think I will be 
more careful with you in future. For a man, you 
are rather sharp.” 

And she looked at him doubtfully. 

“ When you get to my age,” replied Tony, “ you 
will have arrived at the conclusion that the whole 
world is sharper than one took it to be. It does not 
do to think that the world is blind. It is better not 
to care whether it sees or not.” 

“ Women cannot afford to do that,” returned Mar- 
guerite, with the accumulated wisdom of nearly a 
score of years. “ Oh, hang !” she added, a moment 
later, under her breath, as she perceived Joan and 
Major White coming towards them. 

“ I have a letter for you,” said Joan, “enclosed in 
one I received this morning from Mrs. Vansittart 
at the Hague. She is not coming to the Haberdash- 
ers’ Assistants’ Ball, and this is, I suppose, in answer 
to the card you sent her. She explains that she did 
not know your address.” 

And Joan looked at him with a doubtful glance 
for a moment. Cornish took the letter, but did not 
ask permission to open it. He held it in his hand 
and asked Joan a question : 

“ Did you see Saturday’s Times ?” 

“Yes, of course I did,” she answered, earnestly; 
“ and, of course, if it is true, you will all wash your 
hands of the whole affair, I suppose. I was talking 
k 145 


RODEN’S CORNER 


to Mr. Wade about it. He, however, placed both 
sides of the question before me in about ten words, 
and left me to take my choice — which I am incom- 
petent to do.” 

“Papa doesn’t understand women,” put in Mar- 
guerite. 

“Understands money, though,” retorted Major 
White, looking at her in somewhat severe astonish- 
ment, as if he had been hitherto unaware that she 
could speak. Marguerite took the rebuff with de- 
murely closed lips, a probable indication that the 
only retort she could think of was hardly fit for 
enunciation. 

Then Cornish drifted out of the conversation, and 
presently moved away to the window, where he took 
the opportunity of opening Mrs. Vansittart’s letter. 
Mr. Wade, near at hand, was explaining good-nat- 
uredly to Lady Ferriby that, with the best will in the 
world, five per cent, and perfect safety are not to be 
obtained nowadays. 

“ Mon Ami ” (wrote Mrs. Vansittart in French), — “ I take 
a daily promenade after coffee in the Oude Weg. I sit on 
the bench where you sat, and more often than not I see 
the sight that you saw. I am not a sentimental woman, 
but, after all, one has a heart, and this is a pitiful affair. 
Also, I have obtained from a reliable source the information 
that the new system of manufacture is more deadly than 
the old, which I have long suspected, and which I believe 
has passed through your mind as well. You and I went 
into this thing without le bon motif — but Providence is 
dealing out fresh hands, and you, at all events, hold cards 
that call for careful and bold playing. My friend, throw 
your Haberdashers over the wall, and act without delay. 

“ E. V.” 


146 


PLAIN SPEAKING 


She enclosed a formal refusal of the invitation to 
the Haberdashers’ Assistants’ Ball. 

Major White was not a talkative man, and towards 
Joan in particular his attitude was one of silent 
wonder. Instead of talking to her he preferred to 
stand a little way off and look at her. And if, at 
these moments, the keen observer could detect any 
glimmer of expression on his face, that glimmer 
seemed to express abject abasement before a crea- 
tion that could produce anything so puzzling, so in- 
teresting, so absolutely beautiful — as Joan. Cornish, 
seeing White engaged in his favorite pastime, took 
him by the arm and led him to the window. 

“ Read that,” he said, “and then burn it.” 

“ Of course,” Joan was saying to Marguerite, as he 
joined them, “ there are, as your father says, two 
sides to the question. If papa and Tony and Major 
White withdraw their names and abandon the poor 
Malgamiters now, there will be no help for the 
miserable wretches. They will all drift back to the 
cheaper and more poisonous way of making Malga- 
mite. And such a thing would be a blot upon our 
civilization — wouldn’t it, Tony?” 

Marguerite nodded an airy acquiescence. She was 
watching Major White — that great strategist — tear 
up Mrs. Vansittart’s letter and throw it into the fire, 
with a deliberate non-concealment, which was per- 
haps superior to any subterfuge. The Major joined 
the group. 

“That is the view that I take of it,” answered Tony. 

“ And what do yon say ?” asked Joan, turning upon 
the Major. 

“I — ? Oh, notching !” replied that soldier, with 
perfect truthfulness. 


147 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“Then what are you going to do?” asked Joan, 
who was practical, and, like many practical people, 
rather given to hasty action. 

“We are going to stick to the Malgamiters,” re- 
plied Tony, quietly. 

“ Through thick and thin ?” inquired Marguerite, 
buttoning her glove. 

“Yes — through thick and thin.” 

Both girls looked at Major White, who stolidly re- 
turned their gaze, and appeared, as usual, to have no 
remark to offer. He was saved, indeed, from all ef- 
fort in that direction by the advent of Lord Ferriby, 
who entered the room with more than his usual im- 
portance. He carried an open letter in his hand, 
and seemed by his manner to demand the instant 
attention of the whole party. There are some men 
and a few women who live for the multitude, and 
are not content with the attention of one or two 
persons only. And surely these have their reward, 
for the attention of the multitude, however pleasant 
it may be while it lasts, is singularly short-lived, and 
there is nothing more pitiful to watch than the effort 
to catch it when it has wandered. 

“Eh — er,” began his lordship, and everybody 
paused to listen. “I have here a letter from our 
clerk at the Malgamite office in Great George Street. 
It appears that there are a number of persons there 
— paper-makers, I understand — who insist upon see- 
ing us, and refuse to leave the premises until they 
have done so.” 

Lord Ferriby ’s manner indicated quite clearly his 
pity for these persons who had proved themselves 
capable of such a shocking breach of good manners. 

“One hardly knows what to do,” he said, not 
148 


PLAIN SPEAKING 


meaning, of course, that his words should be taken 
au pied de la lettre. His hearers, he obviously felt, 
assuredly knew him better than to imagine that he 
was really at a loss. “ It is difficult to deal with — er 
— persons of this description. What do you propose 
that we should do ?” he inquired, turning, as if by in- 
stinct, to Cornish. 

“ Go and see them,” was the reply. 

“ But, my dear Anthony, such a crisis should be 
dealt with by Mr. Roden, whom one must regard as 
our — er — financial adviser.” 

“ But as Roden is not here, we must do without 
his assistance. Perhaps Mr. Wade would consent to 
act as our financial adviser on this occasion,” sug- 
gested Cornish. 

“ I’ll go with you,” replied the banker, “ and hear 
what they have to say, if you like. But of course I 
can take no part in anything in the nature of a con- 
troversy, and of course my name must not be men- 
tioned.” 

“Incognito,” suggested Lord Ferriby, with a forced 
laugh. 

“Yes — incognito,” returned the banker, gravely. 

The Major attracted general attention to himself 
by muttering something inaudible, which he was 
urged to repeat. 

“ Doocid decent of Mr. Wade,” he said a second 
time. And that seemed to settle the matter, for they 
all moved towards the door. 

“Leave the carriage for me,” cried Marguerite 
over the banisters as her father descended the stairs. 
“ Seems to me,” she added to Joan, in an undertone, 
“ that the Malgamite scheme is up a gum-tree.” 

At the little office of the Malgamite Fund the 
149 


RODEN’S CORNER 


directors of that fashionable charity found four 
gentlemen seated upon the chairs usually grouped 
round the table where the ball committee or the ba- 
zaar subcommittees held their sittings. One who 
appeared to be what Lord Ferriby afterwards de- 
scribed, more in sorrow than in anger, as the ring- 
leader, was a red-haired, brown-bearded Scotchman, 
with square shoulders and his head set thereon in 
a manner indicative of advanced radical opinions. 
The second in authority was a mild-mannered man 
with a pale face and a drooping, sparse mustache. 
He had a gentle eye, and lips forever parting in 
a mildly argumentative manner. The other two 
paper-makers appeared to be foreigners. 

“ A’hm thenking — ” began the mild man in a long 
drawl, but he was promptly overpowered by his 
fejjow-countryman, who nodded curtly to Mr. Wade, 
and said : 

“ Lord Ferriby?” 

“ No,” answered the banker, calmly. 

“ That is my name,” said the chairman of the Mal- 
gamite Fund, with his finger in his watch-chain. 

The russet gentleman looked at him with a fierce 
blue eye. 

“ Then, sir,” he said, “ we’ll come to business. For 
it’s on business that we’ve come. My friend, Mr. 
MacHewlett, is, like myself, in charge of one of the 
biggest mills in the country ; here’s Mossier Del- 
mont, of the great mill at Clermont - Ferrand, and 
Mr. Meyer, from Germany. My own name’s a plain 
one — like myself — but an honest one; — it’s John 
Thompson.” 

Lord Ferriby bowed, and Major White looked at 
John Thompson with a placid interest, as if he felt 
150 


PLAIN SPEAKING 


glad of this opportunity of meeting one of the 
Thompson family. 

“ And we’ve come to ask you to be so good as to 
explain your position as regards Malgamite. What 
are ye, anyway ?” 

“ My dear sir,” began Lord Ferriby, with one hand 
upraised in mild expostulation, “let us be a little 
more conciliatory in our manner. We are, I am sure 
(I speak for myself and my fellow-directors, whom 
you see before you), most desirous of avoiding any 
unpleasantness, and we are ready to give you all the 
information in our power when ” — he paused, and 
waved a graceful hand — “when you have proved 
your right to demand such information.” 

“ Our right is that of representatives of a great 
trade. We four men that have been deputed to see 
you on the matter have at our backs no less than 
eight thousand employes — honest, hard-workin’ men, 
whose bread you are taking out of their mouths. 
We are not afraid of the ordinary vicissitudes of 
commerce. If ye had quietly worked this monopoly 
in fair competition, we should have known how to 
meet ye. But ye come before the world as philan- 
thropists, and ye work a great monopoly under the 
guise of doin’ a good work. It was a dirty thing to 
do.” 

Lord Ferriby shrugged his shoulders. “ My dear 
sir,” he said, “ you fail to grasp the situation. We 
have given our time and attention to the grievances 
of these poor men, whose lot it has been our earnest 
endeavor to ameliorate. You are speaking, my dear 
sir, to men who represent, not eight thousand em- 
ployes, but who represent something greater than 
they, namely, charity.” 

151 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ A’hm thenking— ” began Mr. MacHewlett, plain- 
tively, and the very richness of his accents secured 
a breathless attention. “ Damn charity !” he con- 
cluded, abruptly. And Major White looked upon 
him in solid approval, as upon a plain-spoken man 
after his own heart. 

“ And we,” said Mr. Thompson, “ represent com- 
merce, which was in the world before charity, and 
will be there after it, if charity is going to be han- 
dled by such as you.” 

There was, it appeared, no possibility of pacifying 
these irate paper-makers, whose plainness of speech 
was positively painful to ears so polite as those of 
Lord Ferriby. A Scotchman, hard hit in his ten- 
derest spot, namely, the pocket, is not a person to 
mince words, and Lord Ferriby was for the moment 
silenced by the stormy attack of Mr. Thompson and 
the sly, plaintive hits of his companion. But the 
chairman of the Malgamite Fund would not give 
way, and only repeated his assurances of a desire to 
conciliate, which desire took the form only of words, 
and must, therefore, have been doubly annoying to 
angry men. To him who wants war there is noth- 
ing more insulting than feeble offers of peace. Ma- 
jor White expressed his readiness to fight Messrs. 
Thompson and MacHewlett at one and the same 
time on the landing, but this suggestion was not 
well received. 

Upon two of the listeners no word was lost, and 
Mr. Wade and Cornish knew that the paper-makers 
had right upon their side. 

Quite suddenly Mr. Thompson’s manner changed, 
and he glanced towards the door to see that it was 
closed. 


52 



HE WAS FOLLOWED DOWN THE STAIRS BY THE PAPER-MAKERS 





PLAIN SPEAKING 


“Then it’s a matter of paying,” he said to his 
companions. Turning towards Lord Ferriby, he 
spoke in a voice that sounded more contemptuous 
than angry. 

“We’re plain business men,” he said. “What’s 
your price — you and these other gentlemen ?” 

“ I have no price,” answered Cornish, meeting the 
angry blue eyes and speaking for the first time. 

“And mine is too high — for plain business men,” 
added Major White, with a slow smile. 

“ Seeing that you’re a lord,” said Thompson, ad- 
dressing the chairman again, “ I suppose it’s a mat- 
ter of thousands. Name your figure and be done 
with it.” 

Lord Ferriby took the insult in quite a different 
spirit from that displayed by his two co-directors. 
He was pale with anger, and spluttered rather in- 
coherently. Then he took up his hat and stick and 
walked with much dignity to the door. 

He was followed down the stairs by the paper- 
makers, Mr. Thompson making use of language that 
was decidedly bespattered with “winged words,” 
while Mr. MacHewlett detailed his own thoughts 
in a plaintive monotone. Lord Ferriby got rather 
hastily into a hansom and drove away. 

“ There is nothing for it,” said Mr. Wade to Cor- 
nish, in the gay little office above the Ladies’ Tea 
Association — “there is nothing for it but to run 
Roden’s Corner yourself.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


DANGER 

“ The first and worst of all frauds is to cheat one' s self ” 

Percy Roden was possessed of that love of horses 
which, like sentiment, crops up in strange places. 
He had never been able to indulge this taste beyond 
the doubtful capacities of the livery - stable. He 
found, however, that at the Hague he could hire a 
good saddle-horse, which discovery was made with 
suspicious haste after learning the fact that Mrs. 
Vansittart occasionally indulged in the exercise that 
his soul loved. 

Mrs. Vansittart said that she rode because one 
has to take exercise, and riding is the laziest method 
of fulfilling one’s obligations in this respect. 

“ I don’t like horsy women,” she said ; “and I can- 
not understand how my sex has been foolish enough 
to believe that any woman looks her best, or, in- 
deed, anything but her worst, in the saddle.” 

There is a period in the lives of most men when 
they are desirous of extending their knowledge of 
the surrounding country on horseback, on a bicycle, 
on foot, or even on their hands and knees, if such 
journeys may be accomplished in the company of a 
certain person. Percy Roden was at this period, 
and he soon discovered that there are tulip-farms in 
154 


DANGER 


the neighborhood of the Hague. A tulip-farm may 
serve its purpose as well as ever did a ruin or a 
waterfall in more picturesque countries than Hol- 
land ; for, indeed, during the last weeks in April and 
the early half of May these fields of waving yellow, 
pink, and red are worth travelling many miles to 
see. As for Mrs. Vansittart, it may be said of her 
as of the rest of her sex under similar circumstances, 
that it suited her purpose to say that she would like 
nothing better than to visit the tulip-farms. 

Roden’s suggestion included breakfast at the Villa 
des Dunes, whither Mrs. Vansittart drove in her 
habit, while her saddle-horse was to follow later. 
Dorothy welcomed her readily enough, with, how- 
ever, a subtle reserve at the back of her gray eyes. 
A woman is, it appears, ready to forgive much if 
love may be held as an excuse ; but Dorothy did 
not believe that Mrs. Vansittart had any love for 
Percy ; indeed, she shrewdly suspected that all that 
part of this woman’s life belonged to the past, and 
would remain there until the end of her existence. 
There are few things more astonishing to the close 
observer of human nature than the accuracy and 
rapidity with which one woman will sum up another. 

“You are not in your habit,” said Mrs. Vansittart, 
seating herself at the breakfast-table. “You are not 
to be of the party ?” 

“ No,” answered Dorothy. “ I have never had the 
opportunity or the inclination to ride.” 

“ Ah, I know,” laughed the elder woman. “ Horses 
are old-fashioned, and only dowagers drive in a ba- 
rouche to-day. I suppose you ride a bicycle, or 
would do so in any country but Holland, where the 
roads make that craze atmadness. I must be content 
i55 


RODEN’S CORNER 


with my old-fashioned horse. If, in moving with 
the times, one’s movements are apt to be awkward, 
it is better to be left behind — is it not, Mr. Roden?” 

Roden’s glance expressed what he did not care to 
say in the presence of a third person. When a 
woman whose every movement is graceful speaks of 
awkwardness, she assuredly knows her ground. 

Mrs. Vansittart, moreover, showed clearly enough 
that she was on the safe side of forty by quite a 
number of years when it came to settling herself 
in the saddle and sitting her fresh young horse. 

“Which way?” she inquired, when they reached 
the canal. 

“ Not that way, at all events,” answered Roden, 
for his companion had turned her horse’s head tow- 
ards the Malgamite works. He spoke with a laugh 
that was not pleasant to the ears, and a gleam passed 
through Mrs. Vansittart ’s dark eyes. She glanced 
across the yellow sand-hills, where the works were 
effectually concealed by the rise and fall of the wind- 
swept land, from whence came no sign of human 
life, and only at times, when the north wind blew, 
a faint and not unpleasant odor, like the smell of 
sealing-wax. For all that the world knew of the 
Malgamite-workers, they might have been a colony 
of lepers. 

“You speak,” said Mrs. Vansittart, “as if you were 
a failure, instead of a brilliant success. I think ” — 
she paused for a moment, as if the thought was a 
real one and not a mere conversational convenience, 
as are the thoughts of most people — “ that the cream 
of social life consists of the cheery failures.” 

“ I have no faith in my own luck,” answered Percy 
Roden, gloomily, whose world was a narrow one, 
156 


DANGER 


consisting as it did of himself and his bank-book. 
Moreover, most men draw aside readily enough the 
curtain that should hide the world in which they 
live, whereas women take their stand before their 
curtain and talk, and talk — of other things. Mrs. 
Vansittart had never for a moment been mistaken 
in her estimate of her companion, of — as he con- 
sidered himself — her lover. She had absolutely noth- 
ing in common with him. She was a physically lazy 
but a mentally active woman, whose thoughts ran to 
abstract matters so persistently that they brought 
her to the verge of abstraction itself. Percy Roden, 
on the other hand, would, with better health, have 
been an athlete. In his youth he had overtaxed his 
strength on the football-field. When he took up a 
newspaper now he read the money column first and 
the sporting items next. Mrs. Vansittart glanced 
at neither of these, and as often as not contented 
herself with the advertisements of new books, pass- 
ing idly over the news of the world with a heedless 
eye. She, at all events, avoided the mistake com- 
mon to men and women of a journalistic generation, 
of allowing themselves to be vastly perturbed over 
events in far countries, which can in no way affect 
their lives. 

Roden, on the other hand, took a certain broad in- 
terest in the progress of the world, but only watched 
the daily procession of events with the discriminat- 
ing eye of a business man. He kept his eye, in a 
word, on the main chance, as on a small golden thread 
woven in the gray tissue of the world’s history. 

It was easy enough to make him talk of himself 
and of the Malgamite scheme. 

“ And you must admit that you are a success, you 
i57 


RODEN’S CORNER 


know,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “ I see your quiet gray 
carts, full of little square boxes, passing up Park 
Straat to the railway station in a procession every 
day.” 

“Yes,” admitted Roden. “We are doing a large 
business.” 

He was willing to allow Mrs. Vansittart to suppose 
that he was a rich man, for he was shrewd enough 
to know that the affections, like all else in this world, 
are purchasable. 

“And there is no reason,” suggested Mrs. Vansit- 
tart, “ why you should not go on doing a large busi- 
ness, as you say your method of producing Malga- 
mite is an absolute secret.” 

“Absolute.” 

“And the process is preserved in your memory 
only ?” asked the lady, with a little glance towards 
him which would have awakened the vanity of wiser 
men than Percy Roden. 

“ Not in my memory,” he answered. “ It is very 
long and technical, and I have other things to think 
of. It is in Von Holzen’s head, which is a better one 
than mine.” 

“And suppose Herr Von Holzen should fall down 
and die, or be murdered, or something dramatic of 
that sort — what would happen ?” 

“Ah,” answered Roden, “ we have a written copy of 
it, written in Hebrew, in our small safe at the works, 
and only Von Holzen and I have the keys of the safe.” 

Mrs. Vansittart laughed. “ It sounds like a ro- 
mance,” she said. She pulled up and sat motionless 
in the saddle for a few moments. 

“ Look at that line of sea,” she said, “ on the hori- 
zon. What a wonderful blue !” 

158 


DANGER 


“ It is always dark like that with an east wind,” 
replied Roden, practically. “We like to see it dark.” 

Mrs. Vansittart turned and looked at him inter- 
rogatively, her mind only half weaned from the 
thoughts which he never understood. 

“Because we know that the smell of Malgamite 
will be blown out to sea,” he explained, and she gave 
a little nod of comprehension. 

“ You think of everything,” she said, without en- 
thusiasm. 

“ No — I only think of you,” he answered, with a 
little laugh, which, indeed, was his method of mak- 
ing love. 

For fear of Mrs. Vansittart laughing at him, he 
laughed at love — a very common form of coward- 
ice. She smiled and said nothing, thus tacitly allow- 
ing him, as she had allowed him before, to assume 
that she was not displeased. She knew that in love 
he was the incarnation of caution, and would only 
venture so far as she encouraged him to come. She 
had him, in a word, thoroughly in hand. They rode 
on, talking of other things, and Roden, having sped 
his shaft, seemed relieved in mind, and had plenty 
to say — about himself. A man’s interests are him- 
self, and Malgamite naturally formed a part of Ro- 
den’s conversation. Mrs. Vansittart encouraged him 
with a singular persistency to talk of this interest- 
ing product. 

“ It is wonderful,” she said. “ Quite wonderful.” 

“Well — hardly that,” he answered, slowly, as if 
there was something more to be said, which he did 
not say. 

“And I do not give so much credit to Herr Von 
Holzen as you suppose,” added Mrs. Vansittart, care- 
159 


RODEN’S CORNER 


lessly. “ Some day you will have to fulfil your prom- 
ise of taking me over the works.” 

Roden did not answer. He was perhaps wonder- 
ing when he had made the promise to which his 
companion referred. 

“ Shall we go home that way?” asked Mrs. Van- 
sittart, whose experience of the world had taught 
her that deliberate and steady daring in social mat- 
ters usually succeeds. “We might have a splendid 
gallop along the sands at low tide, and then ride up 
quietly through the dunes. I take a certain inter- 
est in — well — in your affairs, and you have never 
even allowed me to look at the outside of the Mal- 
gamite works.” 

“ Should like to know the extent of your interest,” 
muttered Roden, with his awkward laugh. 

“ I dare say you would,” replied Mrs. Vansittart, 
coolly. “ But that is not the question. Here we are 
at the cross-roads. Shall we go home by the sands 
and the dunes ?” 

“ If you like,” answered Roden, not too gra- 
ciously. 

According to his lights he was honestly in love 
with Mrs. Vansittart, but Percy Roden’s lights were 
not brilliant, and his love was not a very high form 
of that little-known passion. It lacked, for instance, 
unselfishness, and love that lacks unselfishness is, 
at its best, a sorry business. He was afraid of ridi- 
cule. His vanity would not allow him to risk a re- 
buff. His was that faintness of heart which is all 
too common, and owes its ignoble existence to a sul- 
len vanity. He wanted to be sure that Mrs. Vansit- 
tart loved him before he betrayed more than a half- 
contemptuous admiration for her. Who knows that 
160 



“‘ANY OTHER DAY, MADAME 


> fj 



DANGER 


he was not dimly aware of his own inferiority, and 
thus feared to venture ? 

The tide was low, as Mrs. Vansittart had foreseen, 
and they galloped along the hard, flat sands towards 
Scheveningen, where a few clumsy fishing-boats lay 
stranded. Far out at sea others plied their trade, 
tacking to and fro over the banks where the fish 
congregate. The sky was clear, and the deep-col- 
ored sea flashed here and there beneath the sun. 
Objects near and far stood out in the clear air with 
a startling distinctness. It was a fresh May morn- 
ing, when it is good to be alive, and better to be 
young. 

Mrs. Vansittart rode a few yards ahead of her com- 
panion, with a set face and deep, calculating eyes. 
When they came within sight of the tall chimney 
of the pumping-station, it was she who led the way 
across the dunes. 

“ Now,” she suddenly inquired, pulling up and 
turning in her saddle, “ where are your works ? It 
seems that one can never discover them.” 

Roden passed her and took the lead. “ I will take 
you there, since you are so anxious to go — if you 
will tell me why you wish to see the works,” he 
said. 

“ I should like to know,” she answered, with avert- 
ed eyes and a set deliberation, “ where and how you 
spend so much of your time.” 

“ I believe you are jealous of the Malgamite 
works,” he said, with his curt laugh. 

“ Perhaps I am,” she admitted, without meeting 
his glance, and Roden rode ahead, with a gleam of 
satisfaction in his heavy eyes. 

So Mrs. Vansittart found herself within the gates 
l 161 


RODEN’S CORNER 


of the Malgamite works, riding quietly on the silent 
sand, at the heels of Roden’s horse. 

The workmen’s dinner-bell had rung as they ap- 
proached, and now the factories were deserted, while 
within the cottages the mid-day meal occupied the 
full attention of the voluntary exiles. For the direc- 
tors had found it necessary, in the interests of all 
concerned, to bind the workers by a solemn contract 
never to leave the precincts of the works without 
permission. 

Roden did not speak, but led the way across an 
open space, now filled with carts, which were to be 
loaded during the day in readiness for an early 
despatch on the following morning. Mrs. Vansit- 
tart followed without asking questions. She was 
prepared to content herself with a very cursory 
visit. 

They had not progressed thirty yards from the 
entrance-gate, which Roden had opened with a key 
attached to his watch-chain, when the door of one 
of the cottages moved, and Von Holzen appeared. 
He was hatless, and came out into the sunshine 
rather hurriedly. 

“Ah, madame,” he said. “ You honor us beyond 
our merits.” 

And he stood, smiling gravely, in front of Mrs.' 
Vansittart’s horse. She surreptitiously touched the 
animal with her heel, but Von Holzen checked its 
movement by laying his hand on the bridle. 

“Alas !” he said. “It happens to be our mixing 
day, and the factories are hermetically closed while 
the process goes forward. Any other day, madame, 
that your fancy brings you over the dunes, I should 
be delighted — but not to-day. I tell you frankly 
162 


DANGER 


there is danger. You surely would not run into it.” 
He looked up at her with his searching gaze. 

“Ah ! You think it easy to frighten me, Herr Von 
Holzen,” she cried, with a little laugh. 

“No, but I would not for the world that you should 
unwittingly run any risks in this dull place.” 

As he spoke he led the horse quietly to the gate, 
and Mrs. Vansittart, seeing her helplessness, sub- 
mitted with a good grace. Roden made no com- 
ment and followed, not ill pleased, perhaps, at this 
simple solution of his difficulty. 

Von Holzen did not refer to the incident until 
late in the evening, when Roden was leaving the 
works. 

“ This is too serious a time, ” he said,“ to let women, 
or vanity, interfere in our plans. You know that the 
deaths are on the increase. Anything in the nature 
of an inquiry at this time would mean ruin and — 
perhaps worse. Be careful of that woman. I some- 
times think that she is fooling you.” “ But I think,” 
he added to himself, when the gate was closed be- 
hind Roden, “ that I can fool her.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


PLAIN SPEAKING 

“A tons ?naux il y a deux remMes — le temps et le silence ” 

“ They call me Uncle Ben — comprenny ?” one man 
explained very slowly to another for the sixth time 
across a small iron table set out upon the pavement. 
They were seated in front of the humble Cafd de 
l’Europe, which lies concealed in an alley running 
between the Keize Straat and the light-house of 
Scheveningen. It was quite dark, and a lonely rev- 
eller at the next table seemed to be asleep. The 
economical proprietor of the Cafd de l’Europe had 
conceived the idea of constructing a long-shaped 
lantern, not unlike the arm of a railway signal, 
which should at once bear the insignia of his house 
and afford light to his out-door custom. But the 
idea, like many of the higher flights of the human 
imagination, had only left the public in the dark. 

“ Yes,” continued the unchallenged speaker, in a 
voice which may be heard issuing from the door of 
any tavern in England on almost any evening of the 
week — the typical voice of the tavern-talker — “ yes, 
they’ve always called me Uncle Ben. Seems as if 
they’re sort o’ fond of me. Me as has seen many 
hundreds of ’em come and go. But nothing like 
this. Lord save us !” 


164 


PLAIN SPEAKING 


His hand fell heavily on the iron table, and he 
looked round him in semi-intoxicated stupefaction. 
He was in a confidential humor, and when a man is 
in this humor, drunk or sober, he is in a parlous 
state. It was certainly rather unfortunate that 
Uncle Ben should have in this expansive moment no 
more sympathetic companion than an ancient, intox- 
icated Frenchman who spoke no word of English. 

“What I want to know, Frenchy,” continued the 
Englishman, in a thick, aggrieved voice, “ is how 
long you^ve been at this trade, and how much you 
know about it — you and the other Frenchy. But 
there’s none of us speaks the other’s lingo. It is a 
regular Tower of Babble we are !” And Uncle Ben 
added to his mental confusion a further alcoholic 
fog. “ That’s why I showed yer the way out of the 
works over the iron fence by the empty casks, and 
brought yer by the beach to this ’ere house of enter- 
tainment, and stood yer a bottle of brandy between 
two of us — which is handsome, not bein’ my own 
money, seeing as how the other deputed me to do it 
— me knowing a bit of French — comprenny?” Ben- 
jamin, like most of his countrymen, considering that 
if one speaks English in a loud, clear voice, and adds 
“ comprenny ” rather severely, as indicating the in- 
tention of standing no nonsense, the previous re- 
marks will translate themselves miraculously in the 
hearer’s mind. “ You comprenny— eh ? Yes. Oui.” 

“ Oui,” replied the Frenchman, holding out his 
glass, and Uncle Ben’s was that pride which goes 
with a gift of tongues. He struck a match to light 
his pipe — one of the wooden, sulphur-headed matches 
supplied by the caf£ — and the guest at the next table 
turned quietly in his chair. The match flared up 
165 


RODEN’S CORNER 


and showed two faces, which he studied keenly. 
Both faces were alike unwashed and deeply furrowed. 
White, straggling beards and whiskers accentuated 
the redness of the eyelids, the dull yellow of the skin. 
They were hopeless and debased countenances, with 
that disquieting resemblance which is perceptible in 
the faces of men of dissimilar features and no kin- 
ship who have for a number of years followed a com- 
mon calling or suffered a common pain. 

These two men were both half blind ; they had 
equally unsteady hands. The clothing of both alike, 
and even their breath, was scented by a not unpleas- 
ant odor of sealing-wax. 

It was quite obvious that not only were they at 
present half intoxicated, but in their soberest mo- 
ments they could hardly be of a high intelligence. 

The reveller at the next table, who happened to be 
Tony Cornish, now drew his chair nearer. “ Eng- 
lishman ?” he inquired. 

“ That’s me !” answered Uncle Ben, with commend- 
able pride, “ from the top of me head to me boots. 
Not that I’ve anything to say against foreigners.” 

“ Nor I ; but it’s pleasant to meet a countryman in 
a foreign land.” Cornish deliberately brought his 
chair forward. “ Your bottle is empty,” he added ; 
“ I’ll order another. Friend’s a Frenchman, eh ?” 

“ That he is — and doesn’t understand his own lan- 
guage, either,” answered Uncle Ben, in a voice indi- 
cating that that lack of comprehension rather inten- 
sified his friend’s Frenchness than otherwise. 

The proprietor of the Cafe de l’Europe now came 
out in answer to Cornish’s rap on the iron table, and 
presently brought a small bottle of brandy. 

“Yes,” said Cornish, pouring out the spirit, which 
1 66 



“TONY CORNISH DREW HIS CHAIR NEARER 
























































































































• ■ n ■ • 












































































































































































































































- 

















































































































PLAIN SPEAKING 


his companions drank in its undiluted state from 
small tumblers — “ yes, I’m glad to meet an English- 
man. I suppose you are in the works — the Malga- 
mite ?” 

“ I am ; and what do you know about Malgamite, 
mister ?” 

“ Well, not much, I am glad to say.” 

“ There is precious few that knows anything,” said 
the man, darkly, and his eye for a moment sobered 
into cunning. 

“ I have heard that it is a very dangerous trade, 
and if you want to get out of it, I’m connected with 
an association in London to provide situations for 
elderly men who are no longer up to their work,” 
said Cornish, carelessly. 

“Thank ye, mister ; not for me. I’m making my 
five-pound note a week, I am, and each cove that 
dies off makes the survivors one richer, so to speak — 
survival of the fittest, they call it. So we don’t talk 
much, and just pockets the pay.” 

“Ah, that is the arrangement, is it ?” said Cornish, 
indifferently. 

“ Yes. We’ve got a clever financier, I can tell yer. 
We’re a good-goin’ concern, we are. Some of us 
are goin r pretty quick, too.” 

“Are there many deaths, then ?” 

“Ah! there you’re asking a question,” returned 
the man, who came of a social class which has no 
false shame in refusing a reply. Cornish looked at 
the man beneath the dim light of the unsuccessful 
lamp — a piteous specimen of humanity, depraved, 
besotted, without outward sign of a redeeming virtue, 
although a certain courage must have been there; 
this and such as this stood between him and Dorothy 
167 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Roden. Uncle Ben had known starvation at one 
time, for starvation writes certain lines which even 
turtle-soup may never wipe out — lines which any 
may read and none may forget. Tony Cornish had 
seen them before — on the face of an old dandy com- 
ing down the steps of a St. James’s Street club. The 
Malgamiter had likewise known drink long and inti- 
mately, and it is no exaggeration to say that he had 
stood cheek by jowl with death nearly all his life. 

Such a man was plainly not to be drawn away 
from five pounds a week. 

Cornish turned to the Frenchman, a little, cunning, 
bullet-headed Lyonnais, who would not speak of his 
craft at all, though he expressed every desire to be 
agreeable to monsieur. 

“When one is en f He" he cried, “ it is good to 
drink one’s glass or two and think no more of 
work.’’ 

“ I knew one or two of your men once,” said 
Cornish, returning to the genial Uncle Ben. “Will- 
iam Martins, I remember, was a decent fellow, and 
had seen a bit of the world. I will come to the works 
and look him up some day.” 

“You can look him up, mister, but you won’t find 
him.” 

“ Ah, has he gone home ?” 

“ He’s gone to his long home — that’s where he’s 
gone.” 

“And his brother, Tom Martins, both London 
men like myself?” inquired Cornish, without asking 
that question which Uncle Ben considered such ex- 
ceedingly bad form. 

“ Tom’s dead, too.” 

“ And there were two Americans, I recollect — I 
1 68 


PLAIN SPEAKING 


came across from Harwich in the same boat with 
them — Hewlish, they were called.” 

“ Hewlishes has stepped round the corner, too,” ad- 
mitted Uncle Ben. “Oh yes; there’s been changes 
in the works, there’s no doubt. And there’s only one 
sort o’ change in the Malgamite trade. Come on, 
Frenchy — time’s up.” 

The men stood up and bade Cornish good-night, 
each after his own manner, and went away steadily 
enough. It was only their heads that were intoxi- 
cated, and perhaps the brandy of the Cafd de l’Europe 
had nothing to do with this. 

Cornish followed them, and in the Keize Straat 
he called a cab, telling the man to drive to the house 
at the corner of Oranje Straat and Park Straat, oc- 
cupied by Mrs. Vansittart. That lady, the servant 
said, in reply to his careful inquiry, was at home 
and alone, and, moreover, did not expect visitors. 
The man was not at all sure that madame would 
receive. 

“ I will try,” said Cornish, writing two words in 
German on the corner of his visiting-card. “You 
see,” he continued, noticing a well -trained glance, 
“ that I am not dressed, so if other visitors arrive I 
would rather not be discovered in madame’s salon — 
you understand?” 

Mrs. Vansittart shook hands with Cornish in si- 
lence. Her quick eyes noted the change in him 
which the shrewd butler had noticed in the entrance- 
hall. The Cornish of a year earlier would have gone 
back to the hotel to dress. 

“I was just going out to the Witte Society con- 
cert,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “ I thought the open air 
and the wood would be pleasant this evening. Shall 
169 


RODEN’S CORNER 


we go or shall we remain?” She stood with her hand 
on the bell looking at him. 

“Let us remain here,” he answered. 

She rang the bell and countermanded the carriage. 
Then she sat slowly down, moving as under a sort 
of oppression, as if she foresaw what the next few 
minutes contained, and felt herself on the threshold 
of one of the surprises that Fate springs upon us at 
odd times, tearing aside the veils behind which hu- 
man hearts have slept through many years. For 
indifference is not the death, but only the sleep of 
the heart. 

“You have just arrived ?” 

“ No ; I have been here a week.” 

“At the Hague?” 

“No,” answered Cornish, with a grave smile ; “at 
a little inn in Scheveningen, where no questions are 
asked.” 

Mrs. Vansittart nodded her head slowly. “Then, 
mon ami,” she said, “the time has come for plain 
speaking ?” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ It is always the woman who wants to get to the 
plain speaking,” she said, with a smile, “and who 
speaks the plainest when one gets there. You men 
are afraid of so many words ; you think them, but 
you dare not make use of them. And how are wom- 
en to know that you are thinking them ?” She 
spoke with a sort of tolerant bitterness, as if all 
these questions no longer interested her personally. 
She sat forward, with one hand on the arm of her 
chair. “Come,” she said, with a little laugh that 
shook and trembled on the brink of a whole sea of 
unshed tears, “ I will speak the first word. When 
170 


PLAIN SPEAKING 


my husband died, my heart broke — and it was Otto 
Von Holzen who killed him.” Her eyes flashed sud- 
denly, and she threw herself back in the chair. Her 
hands were trembling. 

Cornish made a quick gesture of the hand — a trick 
he had learned somewhere on the Continent, more 
eloquent than a hundred words — which told of his 
sympathy and his comprehension of all that she had 
left unsaid. For truly she had told him her whole 
history in a dozen words. 

“ I have followed him and watched him ever since,” 
she went on, at length, in a quiet voice ; “ but a 
woman is so helpless. I suppose if any of us were 
watched and followed as he has been, our lives would 
appear a strange medley of a little good and much 
bad mixed with a mass of neutral idleness. But 
surely his life is worse than the rest — not that it 
matters. Whatever his life had been, if he had 
been a living saint, Tony, he would have had to pay 
— for what he has done to me.” 

She looked steadily into the keen face that was 
watching hers. She was not in the least melodra- 
matic ; and, what was more strange, perhaps, she 
was not ashamed. According to her lights she was 
a good woman, who went to church regularly, and 
did a little conventional good with her superfluous 
wealth. She obeyed the unwritten laws of society, 
and busied herself little in her neighbors’ affairs. 
She was kind to her servants, and did not hate her 
neighbors more than is necessary in a crowded world. 
She led a blameless, unoccupied, and apparently pur- 
poseless life. And now she quietly told Tony Cornish 
that her life was not purposeless, but had for its aim 
the desire of an eye for an eye and a life for a life. 

171 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ You remember my husband,” continued Mrs. 
Vansittart, after a pause. “ He was always absorbed 
in his researches. He made a great discovery, and 
confided in Otto Von Holzen, who thought that he 
could make a fortune out of it. But Von Holzen 
cheated and was caught. There was a great trial, 
and Von Holzen succeeded in incriminating my hus- 
band, who was innocent, instead of himself. The 
company, of course, failed, which meant ruin and 
dishonor. In a fit of despair my husband shot him- 
self. And afterwards it tmnspired that by shooting 
himself at that time he saved my money. One can- 
not take proceedings against a dead man, it appears. 
So I was left a rich woman, after all, and my hus- 
band had frustrated Otto Von Holzen. The world 
did not believe that my husband had done it on 
purpose ; but I knew better. It is one of those 
beliefs that one keeps to one’s self, and is indifferent 
whether the world believes or not. So there remain 
but two things for me to do — the one is to enjoy the 
money, and to let my husband see that I spend it as 
he would have wished me to spend it — upon myself ; 
the other is to make Otto Von Holzen pay — when 
the time comes. Who knows? — the Malgamite is 
perhaps the time ; you are perhaps the man.” She 
gave her disquieting little laugh again, and sat look- 
ing at him. 

“ I understand,” he said, at length. “ Before, I was 
puzzled. There seemed no reason why you should 
take any interest in the scheme.” 

“My interest in the Malgamite scheme narrows 
down to an interest in one person,” answered Mrs. 
Vansittart, “which is what really happens to all 
human interests, my friend.” 

172 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A COMPLICATION 

“ La plus grande punition infiigde a Vhomme , c'cst faire sottffrir 
ce qu'il aime, en voulant f rapper ce qu'il hait " 

Cornish had, as he told Mrs. Vansittart, been liv- 
ing a week at Scheveningen in one of the quiet little 
inns in the fishing-town, where a couple of apples 
are displayed before lace curtains in the window of 
the restaurant as a modest promise of entertainment 
within. Knowing no Dutch, he was saved the neces- 
sity of satisfying the curiosity of a garrulous land- 
lady, who, after many futile questions which he un- 
derstood perfectly, came to the conclusion that Cor- 
nish was in hiding, and might at any moment fall 
into the hands of the police. 

There are, it appears, few human actions that at- 
tract more curiosity for a short time than the act of 
colonization ; but no changes are in the long-run so 
apathetically accepted as the presence of a colony 
of aliens. Cornish soon learned that the Malgamite 
works were already accepted at Scheveningen as a 
fact of small local importance. One or two fish- 
sellers took their wares there instead of going direct 
to the Hague. A few of the Malgamite- workers 
were seen at times, when they could get leave, on 
the Digue, or outside the smaller cafes. Inoffensive, 
i73 


RODEN’S CORNER 


stricken men these appeared to be, and the big- 
limbed, hardy fishermen looked on them with min- 
gled contempt and pity. No one knew what the 
works were, and no one cared. Some thought that 
fireworks were manufactured within the high fence ; 
others imagined it to be a gunpowder-factory. All 
were content with the knowledge that the establish- 
ment belonged to a big English company employing 
no outside labor. 

Cornish spent his days unobtrusively, walking on 
the dunes or writing letters in his modest rooms. 
His evenings he usually passed at the Cafe de 
l’Europe, where an occasional truant Malgamite- 
worker would indulge in a mild carouse. From 
these grim revellers Cornish elicited a great deal of 
information. He was not actually, as his landlady 
suspected, in hiding, but desired to withhold as long 
as possible from Von Holzen and Roden the fact 
that he was in Holland. None of the Malgamite- 
workers recognized him ; indeed, he saw none of 
those whom he had brought across to the Hague, 
and he did not care to ask too many questions. At 
length, as we have seen, he arrived at the conclusion 
that Von Holzen’s schemes had been too deeply laid 
to allow of attack by subtler means, and as a pre- 
liminary to further action had called on Mrs. Van- 
sittart. 

The following morning he happened to take his 
walk within sight of the Villa des Dunes, although 
far enough away to avoid risk of recognition, and 
saw Percy Roden leave the house shortly after nine 
to proceed towards the works. Then Tony Cornish 
lighted a cigarette and sat down to wait. He knew 
that Dorothy usually walked to the Hague before 
i74 


A COMPLICATION 


the heat of the day, to do her shopping there and 
household business. He had not long to wait. Doro- 
thy quitted the little house half an hour after her 
brother. But she did not go towards the Hague, 
turning to the right instead, across the open dunes 
towards the sea. It was a cool morning after many 
hot days, and a fresh, invigorating breeze swept 
over the sand-hills from the sea. It was to be pre- 
sumed that Dorothy, having leisure, was going to 
the edge of the sea for a breath of the brisk air 
there. 

Cornish rose and followed her. He was essentially 
a practical man — in the forefront of the leaders of a 
practical generation. The day, moreover, was con- 
ducive to practical thoughts, and not to dreams, for 
it was gray, and yet of a light air, which came 
bowling in from a gray sea, whose shores have as- 
suredly been trodden by the most energetic of the 
races of the world. For all around the North Sea 
and on its bosom have risen races of men to conquer 
the universe again and again. 

Cornish had come with the intention of seeing 
Dorothy and speaking with her. He had quite 
clearly in his mind what he intended to say to her. 
It is not claimed for Tony Cornish that he had a 
great mind. But his thoughts, like all else about 
him, were neat and compact, wherein he had the ad- 
vantage of cleverer men who plundered along under 
the burden of vast ideas which they could not put 
into portable shape, and over which they constantly 
stumbled. 

He followed Dorothy, who walked briskly over the 
sand-hills, upright, trim, and strong. She carried a 
stick, which she planted firmly enough in the sand 
i75 


RODEN’S CORNER 


as she walked. As he approached he could see her 
lifting her head to look for the sea ; for the highest 
hills are actually on the shore here, and stand in the 
form of a great barrier between the waves and the 
low-lying plains. She swung along at the pace which 
Mrs. Vansittart had envied her, without exertion, 
with that ease which only comes from perfect pro- 
portions and strength. 

Cornish was quite close to her before she heard 
his step and turned sharply. She recognized him at 
once, and he saw the color slowly rise to her face. 
She gave no cry of surprise, however — was in no 
foolish feminine flutter, but came towards him 
quietly. 

“ I did not know you were in Holland,” she said. 

He shook hands without answering. All that he 
had prepared in his mind had suddenly vanished, 
leaving, not a blank, but a hundred other things 
which he had not intended to say, and which now, at 
the sight of her face, seemed inevitable. 

“ Yes,” he said, in a low voice, looking into her 
steady gray eyes. “ I am in Holland — because I can- 
not stay away — because I cannot live without you. 
I have pretended to myself and to everybody else 
that I come to the Hague because of the Malgamite ; 
but it is not that. It is because you are here. Wher- 
ever you are, I must be ; wherever you go, I must 
follow you. The world is not big enough for you to 
get away from me. It is so big that I feel I must 
always be near you — for fear something should hap- 
pen to you — to watch over you and take care of you. 
You know what my life has been. . . .” 

She turned away with a shrug of the shoulders 
and a shake of the head. For a woman may read a 
176 


A COMPLICATION 


man’s life in his face — in the twinkling of an eye — as 
in an open book. 

“ All the world knows that,” he continued, with a 
sceptical laugh. “ Is it not written — in the society 
papers ? But it has always been aboveboard — and 
harmless enough. . . 

Dorothy gave a queer smile as she looked out 
across the gray sea. He was, it appeared, telling her 
nothing that she did not know. For she was wise 
and shrewd — of that pure leaven of womankind 
which leaveneth all the rest. And she knew that a 
man must not be judged by his life — not even by 
outward appearance, upon which the world pins so 
much faith — but by that occasional glimpse of the 
soul of him which may live on, pure through all 
impurity, or may be foul beneath the whitest cov- 
ering. 

“ Of course,” he continued, “ I have wasted my time 
horribly : I have never done any good in the world. 
But — great is the extenuating circumstance ! I 
never knew what life was until I saw it — in your 
eyes.” 

Still she stood with her back half turned towards 
him, looking out across the sea. The sun had mas- 
tered the clouds, and all the surface of the water glit- 
tered. A few boats on the horizon seemed to dream 
and sleep there. Beneath the dunes, the sand 
stretched away north and south in an unbroken 
plain. The wind whispered through the waving 
grass, and, far across the sands, the sea sang its eter- 
nal song. Dorothy and Cornish seemed to be alone 
in this world of sea and sand. So far as the eye 
could see, there were no signs of human life but the 
boats dreaming on the horizon. 

M r 77 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ Are you quite sure ?” said Dorothy, without 
turning her head. 

“ Of what ?” 

“ Of what you say.” 

“ Yes ; I am quite sure.” 

“ Because,” she said, with a little laugh that sud- 
denly opened the gates of Paradise and bade one 
more poor human being enter. in — “because it is a 
serious matter — for me.” 

Then, because he was a practical man, and knew 
that happiness, like all else in this life, must be dealt 
with practically if aught is to be made of it, he told 
her why he had come. For happiness must not be 
rushed at and seized with wild eyes and grasping 
hands, but must be quickly taken when the chance 
offers, and delicately handled, so that it be not 
ruined by overhaste or too much confidence. It is a 
gift that is rarely offered, and it is only fair to say 
that the majority of men and women are quite unfit 
to have it. Even a little prosperity (which is usual- 
ly mistaken for happiness) often proves too much 
for the mental equilibrium, and one trembles to 
think what the recipient would do with real happi- 
ness. 

“ I did not come here intending ta tell you that,” 
said Cornish, after a pause. 

They were seated now on the dry and driven sand, 
among the inequalities of the tufted grass. 

Dorothy glanced at him gravely, for his voice had 
been grave. “ I think I knew,” she answered, with a 
sort of quiet exaltation. Happiness is the quietest 
of human conditions. Cornish turned to look at 
her, and after a moment she met his eyes — for an 
instant only. 


78 


THERE WAS NO TROUBLE IN THEIR HEARTS 








A COMPLICATION 

“I came to tell you a very different story,” he 
said, “ and one which at the moment seems to present 
insuperable difficulties. I can only show you that I 
care for you by bringing trouble into your life — 
which is not even original.” 

He broke off with a puzzled sigh. For he did not 
know how best to tell her that her brother was a 
scoundrel. He sat making idle holes in the sand 
with his stick. 

“ I am in a difficulty,” he said, at length. “ So 
great a difficulty that there seems to be only one 
way out of it. You must forget what I have told 
you to-day, for I never meant to tell you until after- 
wards, if ever. Forget it for some months, until the 
Malgamite works have ceased to exist ; and then, if 
I have the good-fortune to be given an opportunity, 
I will ” — he paused — “ I will mention myself again,” 
he concluded, steadily. 

Dorothy’s lips quivered, but she said nothing. It 
seemed that she was content to accept his judgment, 
without comment, as superior to her own. For the 
wisest woman is she who suspects that men are wiser. 

“It is quite clear,” said Cornish, “that the Malga- 
mite scheme is a fraud. It is worse than that ; it is 
a murderous fraud. For Von Holzen’s new system 
of making Malgamite is not new at all, but an old 
system revived, which was set aside many years ago 
as too deadly. If it is not this identical system, it 
is a variation of it. They are producing the stuff 
for almost nothing at the cost of men’s lives. In 
plain English, it is murder, and it must be stopped 
at any cost. You understand ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I must stop it whatever it may cost me.” 

179 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“Yes,” she answered again, in her quiet strength. 

“ I am going to the works to-night to have it out 
with Von Holzen and your brother. It is impossi- 
ble to say how matters really stand — how much your 
brother knows, I mean — for Von Holzen is clever. 
He is a cold, calculating man who rules all who come 
near him. Your brother has only to do with the 
money part of it. They are making a great fortune. 
I am told that financially it is splendidly managed. 
I am a duffer at such things, but I understand bet- 
ter now how it has all been done, and I see how 
clever it is. They produce the stuff for almost noth- 
ing, they sell it at a great price, and they have a 
monopoly. And the world thinks it is charity. It 
is not ; it is murder.” 

He spoke quietly, tapping the ground with his 
stick, and emphasizing his words with a deeper thrust 
into the sand. The habit of touching life lightly 
had become second nature with him, and even now 
he did not seem quite serious. He was, at all events, 
free from that deadly earnestness which blinds the 
eye to all save one side of a question. The very 
soil that he tapped could have risen up to speak in 
favor of such as he ; for William the Silent, it is 
said, loved a jest, and never seemed to be quite se- 
rious during the long years of the greatest struggle 
the modern world has seen. 

“ It seems probable,” went on Cornish, “ that your 
brother has been gradually drawn into it ; that he 
did not know when he first joined Von Holzen what 
the thing really was — the system of manufacture, I 
mean. As for the financial side of it, I am afraid 
he must have known of that all along ; but the older 
one gets the less desirous one is of judging one’s 
180 


A COMPLICATION 


neighbor. In financial matters so much seems to 
depend, in the formation of a judgment, whether 
one is a loser or a gainer by the transaction. There 
is a great fortune in Malgamite, and a fortune is a 
temptation to be avoided. Others besides your 
brother have been tempted. I should probably have 
succumbed myself if it had not been — for you.” 

She smiled again in a sort of derision, as if she 
could have told him more about himself than he 
could tell her. He saw the smile, and it brought a 
flash of light to his eyes. Deeper than fear of dam- 
nation, higher than the creeds, stronger than any 
motive in a man’s life, is the absolute confidence 
placed in him by a woman. 

“I went into the thing thoughtlessly,” he con- 
tinued, “because it was the fashion at the time to 
be concerned in some large charity. And I am not 
sorry. It was the luckiest move I ever made. And 
now the thing will have to be gone through with, 
and there will be trouble.” 

But he laughed as he spoke ; for there was no 
trouble in their hearts, neither could anything ap- 
pall them. 


CHAPTER XIX 


DANGER 

‘ * Beware equally of a sudden friend and a slow enemy ” 

Roden and Von Holzen were busy in the little 
office of the Malgamite works. The sun had just set, 
and the soft, pearly twilight was creeping over the 
sand-hills. The day’s toil was over, and the factories 
were all locked up for the night. In the stillness 
that seemed to settle over earth and sea at sunset, 
the sound of the little waves could be heard — a dis- 
tant, constant babbling from the west. The workers 
had gone to their huts. They were not a noisy body 
of men. It was their custom to creep quietly home 
when their work was done, and to sit in their door- 
ways if the evening was warm, or with closed doors 
if the north wind was astir, and silently, steadily as- 
suage their deadly thirst. Those who sought to har- 
vest their days, who fondly imagined they were going 
to make a fight for it, drank milk according to ad- 
vice handed down to them from their sickly fore- 
fathers. The others, more reckless, or wiser, per- 
haps, in their brief generation, took stronger drink 
to make glad their hearts and for their many in- 
firmities. They had merely to ask, and that which 
they asked for was given to them without com- 
ment. 

182 


DANGER 


“Yes,” said Uncle Ben to the new-comers, “you 
has a slap-up time — while it lasts.” 

For Uncle Ben was a strong man, and waxed gar- 
rulous in his cups. He had made Malgamite all 
his life, and nothing would kill him, not even drink. 
Von Holzen watched Uncle Ben, and did not like 
him. It was Uncle Ben who played the concertina 
at the door of his hut in the evening. He sprang 
from the class whose soul takes delight in the 
music of a concertina, and rises on bank holidays 
to that height of gayety which can only be ex- 
pressed by an interchange of hats. He came from 
the slums of London, where they breed a race of 
men small, ill -formed, disease - stricken, hard to 
kill. 

The north wind was blowing this evening, and the 
huts were all closed. The sound of Uncle Ben’s con- 
certina could be dimly heard in what purported to be 
a popular air — a sort of nightmare of a tune, such as 
a barrel-organist must suffer after bad beer. Other- 
wise there was nothing stirring within the enclosure. 
There was, indeed, a hush over the whole place, such 
as Nature sometimes lays over certain spots like a 
quiet veil, as one might lay a cloth over the result of 
an accident, and say, “There is something wrong 
here ; go away.” 

Cornish, having tried the main entrance - gate, 
found it locked, and no bell with which to summon 
those within. He went round to the northern end 
of the enclosure, where the sand had drifted against 
the high corrugated-iron fencing, and where there 
were empty barrels on the inner side, as Uncle Ben 
had told him. 

“After all, I am a managing director of this con- 
183 


RODEN’S CORNER 


cern,” said Cornish, with a grim laugh, as he clam- 
bered over the fence. 

He walked down the row of huts very slowly. 
Some of them were empty. The door of one stood 
ajar, and a sudden smell of disinfectant made him 
stop and look in. There was something lying on a 
bed, covered by a grimy sheet. 

“ Um — m,” muttered Cornish, and walked on. 

There had been another Visitor to the Malgamite 
works that day. 

Then Cornish paused for a moment near Uncle 
Ben’s hut and listened to “ Tarara-boom-de-ay.” He 
bit his lips, restraining a sudden desire to laugh 
without any mirth in his heart, and went towards 
Von Holzen’s office, where a light already gleamed 
through the ill-closed curtains. For these men were 
working night and day now — making their fortunes. 
He caught, as he passed the window, a glimpse of 
Roden bending over a great ledger which lay open 
before him on the table, while Von Holzen, at anoth- 
er desk, was writing letters in his neat German hand. 

Then Cornish went to the door, opened it, and, 
passing in, closed it behind him. “Good-evening,” 
he said, with just a slight exaggeration of his usual 
suave politeness. 

“ Halloo !” exclaimed Roden, with a startled look, 
instinctively closing his ledger. He looked hastily 
towards Von Holzen, who turned, pen in hand. Von 
Holzen bowed rather coldly. 

“ Good-evening,” he answered, without looking at 
Roden. Indeed, he crossed the room and placed 
himself in front of his companion. 

“Just come across?” inquired Roden, putting to- 
gether his papers with his usual leisureliness. 

184 


DANGER 


“ No ; I have been here some time.” 

Cornish turned and met Von Holzen’s eyes with 
a ready audacity. He was not afraid of this silent 
scientist, and had been trained in a social world 
where nerve and daring are highly cultivated. Von 
Holzen looked at him with a measuring eye, and re- 
membered some warning words spoken by Roden 
months before. This was a cleverer man than they 
had thought him. This was the one mistake they 
had made in their careful scheme. 

“ I have been looking into things,” said Cornish, in 
a final voice. He took off his hat and laid it aside. 
Von Holzen went slowly back to his desk, which was 
a high one. He stood there close by Roden, leaning 
his elbow on the letters that he had been writing. 
The two men were thus together, facing Cornish, 
who stood at the other side of the table. “ I have 
been looking into things,” he repeated, “and — the 
game is up.” 

Roden, whose face was quite colorless, shrugged 
his shoulders with a sneering smile. Von Holzen 
slowly moistened his lips, and Cornish, meeting his 
glance, felt his heart leap upward to his throat. 
His way had been the way of peace. He had never 
seen that look in a man’s eyes before, but there was 
no mistaking it. There are two things that none 
can mistake : an earthquake — and murder shining 
in a man’s eyes. But there was good blood in 
Cornish’s veins, and good blood never fails. His 
muscles tightened, and he smiled in Von Holzen’s 
face. 

“When you were over in London, a fortnight ago,” 
he said, “ you saw my uncle — and squared him. But 
I am not Lord Ferriby, and I am not to be squared. 
185 


RODEN’S CORNER 


As to the financial part of this business” — he paused 
and glanced at the ledgers — “that seems to be of 
secondary importance at the moment. Besides, I do 
not understand finance.” 

Roden’s tired eyes flickered at the way in which 
the word was spoken. 

“ I propose to deal with the more vital questions,” 
Cornish continued, looking straight at Von Holzen. 
“ I want details of the new process — the prescription, 
in fact.” 

“Then you want much,” answered Von Holzen, 
with his slight accent. 

“ Oh, I want more than that,” was the retort ; “ I 
want a list of your deaths — not necessarily for pub- 
lication. If the public were to hear of it, they 
would pull the place down about your ears, and 
probably hang you on your own water-tower.” 

Von Holzen laughed. “Ah, my fine gentleman, 
if there is any hanging up to be done, you are in it, 
too,” he said. Then he broke into a good-humored 
laugh, and waived the question aside with his hand. 
“ But why should we quarrel ? It is mere foolish- 
ness. We are not school-boys, but men of the world, 
who are reasonable, I hope. I cannot give you the 
prescription, because it is a trade secret. You would 
not understand it without expert assistance, and the 
expert would turn his knowledge to account. We 
chemists, you see, do not trust each other. No ; 
but I can make Malgamite here before your eyes — 
to show you that it is harmless — what ?” He spoke 
easily, with a certain fascination of manner, as a man 
to whom speech was easy enough — who was perhaps 
silent with a set purpose — because silence is safe. 
“ But it is a long process,” he added, holding up one 
1 86 


DANGER 


finger, “ I warn you. It will take me two hours. 
And you, who have perhaps not dined, and Roden, 
here, who is tired out — ” 

“ Roden can go home — if he is tired,” said Cornish. 

“Well,” answered Von Holzen, with outspread 
hands, “ it is as you like. Will you have it now and 
here?” 

“Yes — now and here.” 

Roden was slowly folding away his papers and 
closing his books. He glanced curiously at Von 
Holzen as if he were displaying a hitherto unknown 
side to his character. Von Holzen, too, was collect- 
ing the papers scattered on his desk, with a patient 
air and a half-suppressed sigh of weariness, as if he 
were entering upon a work of supererogation. 

“ As to the deaths,” he said, “ I can demonstrate 
that as we go along. You will see where the dangers 
lie, and how criminally neglectful these people are. 
It is a curious thing, that carelessness of life. I am 
told the Russian soldiers have it.” 

It seemed that in his way Herr Von Holzen was a 
philosopher, having in his mind a store of odd human 
items. He certainly had the power of arousing curi- 
osity and making his hearers wish him to continue 
speaking, which is rare. Most men are uninteresting 
because they talk too much. 

“ Then I think I will go,” said Roden, rising. He 
looked from one to the other and received no an- 
swer. “ Good-night,” he added, and walked to the 
door with dragging feet. 

“Good-night,” said Cornish. And he was left alone 
for the first time in his life with Von Holzen, who was 
clearing the table and making his preparation with 
a silent deftness of touch acquired by the handling 
187 


RODEN’S CORNER 

of delicate instruments, the mixing of dangerous 
drugs. 

“Then our good friend Lord Ferriby does not 
know that you are here ?” he inquired, without much 
interest, as if acknowledging the necessity of con- 
versation of some sort. 

“ No,” answered Cornish. 

“ When I have shown you this experiment,” pur- 
sued Von Holzen, setting the lamp on a side-table, 
“ we must have a little talk about his lordship. With 
all modesty, you and I have the clearest heads of all 
concerned in this invention.” He looked at Cornish 
with his sudden, pleasant smile. “You will excuse 
me,” he said, “ if while I am doing this I do not talk 
much. It is a difficult thing to keep in one’s head, 
and all the attention is required in order to avoid a 
mistake or a mishap.” 

He had already assumed an air of unconscious 
command which- was probably habitual with him, as 
if there were no question between them as to who 
was the stronger man. Cornish sat, pleasantly si- 
lent and acquiescent, but he felt in no way dom- 
inated. It is one thing to assume authority, and 
another to possess it. 

“ I have a little laboratory in the factory where I 
usually work, but not at night. We do not allow 
lights in there. Excuse me, I will fetch my crucible 
and lamp.” 

And he went out, leaving Cornish alone. There 
was only one door to the room, leading straight out 
into the open. The office, it appeared, was built in 
the form of an annex to one of the storehouses, which 
stood detached from all other buildings. 

In a few minutes Von Holzen returned laden with 
1 88 


HE LAY FOR A MOMENT OR TWO TO REGAIN HIS BREATH 





















DANGER 


bottles and jars. One large wicker-covered bottle 
with a screw top he set carefully on the table. 

“ I had to find them in the dark,” he explained, 
absent-mindedly, as if his thoughts were all absorbed 
by the work in hand. “And one must be careful 
not to jar or break any of these. Please do not touch 
them in my absence.” 

As he spoke he again examined the stoppers to 
see that all was secure. “ I come again,” he said, 
making sure that the large basket - covered bottle 
was safe. Then he walked quickly out of the room 
and closed the door behind him. 

Almost immediately Cornish was conscious of a 
queer taste in his mouth, though he could smell 
nothing. The lamp suddenly burned blue and in- 
stantly went out. Cornish stood up, groping in the 
dark, his head swimming, a deadly numbness assail- 
ing his limbs. He had no pain, only a strange sen- 
sation of being drawn upward. Then his head bump- 
ed against the door, and the remaining glimmer of 
consciousness shaped itself into the knowledge that 
this was death. He seemed to swing backward 
and forward between life and death — between sleep 
and consciousness. Then he felt a cooler air on his 
lips. He had fallen against the door, which did not 
fit to the threshold, and a draught of fresh air whis- 
tled through upon his face. “ Carbonic -acid gas,” 
he muttered, with shaking lips. “ Carbonic-acid gas.” 
He repeated the words over and over again, <as a 
man in delirium repeats that which has fixed itself 
in his wandering brain. Then, with a great effort, 
he brought himself to understand the meaning of the 
words that one portion of his brain kept repeating 
to the other portion, which could not comprehend 
189 


RODEN’S CORNER 


them. He tried to recollect all that he knew of car- 
bonic-acid gas, which was, in fact, not much. He 
vaguely remembered that it is not an active gas 
that mingles with the air and spreads, but rather 
it lurks in corners — an invisible form of death — and 
will so lurk for years unless disturbed by a current 
of air. 

Cornish knew that in falling he had fallen out of 
the radius of the escaping gas, which probably filled 
the upper part of the room. If he raised himself, 
he would raise himself into the gas ; if he lay still, 
the gas would slowly come down to him. He had 
already inhaled enough — perhaps too much. He lay 
quite still, breathing the draught between the door 
and the threshold, and, raising his left hand, felt for 
the handle of the door. He found it and turned it. 
The door was locked. He lay still, and his brain 
began to wander, but with an effort he kept a hold 
upon his thoughts. He was a strong man who had 
never had a bad illness — a cool head and an intrepid 
heart. Stretching out his legs, he found some ob- 
ject close to him. It was Von Holzen’s desk, which 
stood on four strong legs against the wall. Cornish, 
who was quick and observant, remembered now how 
the room was shaped and furnished. He gathered 
himself together, drew in his legs, and doubled him- 
self, with his feet against the desk, his shoulder 
against the door. He was long and lithe, of a steely 
strength which he had never tried. He now slowly 
straightened himself, and tore the screws out of the 
solid wood of the door, which remained hanging by 
the upper hinge. His head and shoulders were now 
out in the open air. 

He lay for a moment or two to regain his breath, 
190 


DANGER 


and recover from the deadly nausea that follows gas- 
poisoning. Then he rose to his feet and stood sway- 
ing like a drunken man. Von Holzen’s cottage was 
a few yards away. A light was burning there, and 
gleamed through the cracks of the curtains. 

Cornish went towards the cottage, then paused. 
“ No,” he muttered, holding his head with both 
hands. “ It will keep.” And he staggered away in 
the darkness towards the corner where the empty 
barrels stood against the fence. 


CHAPTER XX 


FROM THE PAST 
“ One and one with a shadowy third ” 

“You have the air, mon ami, of a Malgamiter,” 
said Mrs. Vansittart, looking into Cornish’s face. 
“ Lurking here in your little inn in a back street ! 
Why do you not go to one of the larger hotels 
in Scheveningen, since you have abandoned the 
Hague ?” 

“ Because the larger hotels are not open yet,” re- 
plied Cornish, bringing forward a chair. 

“ That is true, now that I think of it. But I did 
not ask the question wanting an answer. You, who 
have been in the world, should know women better 
than to think that. I asked in idleness — a woman’s 
trick. Yes, you have been or you are ill. There is a 
singular look in your face.” 

She sat looking at him. She had walked all the 
way from Park Straat in the shade of the trees — 
quite a pedestrian feat for one who confessed to be- 
longing to a carriage generation. She had boldly 
entered the restaurant of the little hotel, and had 
told the waiter to take her to Mr. Cornish’s apart- 
ment. 

“ It hardly matters what a very young waiter, at 
the beginning of his career, may think of us. But 
192 


FROM THE PAST 

down-stairs they are rather scandalized, I warn you,” 
she said. 

“ Oh, I ceased explaining many years ago,” replied 
Cornish, “even in English. More suspicion is aroused 
by explanation than by silence. For this wise world 
will not believe that one is telling the truth.” 

“When one is not,” suggested Mrs. Vansittart. 

“ When one is not,” admitted Cornish, in rather a 
tired voice, which, to so keen an ear as that of his 
hearer, was as good as asking her why she had cbme. 

She laughed. “Yes,” she said, “you are not in- 
clined to sit and talk nonsense at this time in the 
morning. No more am I. I did not walk from Park 
Straat and take your defences by storm and subject 
myself to the insult of a raised eyebrow on the 
countenance of a foolish young waiter to talk non- 
sense even with you, who are cleverer with your non- 
committing platitudes than any man I know.” She 
laughed rather harshly, as many do when they find 
themselves suddenly within hail, as it were, of that 
weakness which is called feeling. “ No, I came here 
on — i e t us say — business. I hold a good card, and I 
am going to play it. I want you to hold your hand 
in the meantime : give me to-day, you understand. 
I have taken great care to strengthen my hand. 
This is no sudden impulse, but a set purpose to 
which I have led up for some weeks. It is not 
scrupulous ; it is not even honest. It is, in a word, 
essentially feminine, and not an affair to which you 
as a man could lend a moment’s approval. There- 
fore I tell you nothing. I merely ask you to leave 
me an open field to-day. Our end is the same, though 
our methods and our purpose differ as much as — 
well — as much as our minds. You want to break 
N 193 


RODEN’S CORNER 


this Malgamite corner. I want to break Otto Von 
Holzen : you understand?” 

Cornish had known her long enough to permit 
himself to nod and say nothing. 

“ If I succeed, taut mieux. If I fail, it is no concern 
of yours, and it will in no way affect you or your 
plans. Ah, you disapprove, I see. What a compli- 
cated world this would be if we could all wear masks ! 
Your face used to be a safer one than it is now. Can 
it be that you are becoming serious — nn jeune homtne 
serieux ? Heaven save you from that !” 

“ No ; I have a headache ; that is all,” laughed 
Cornish. 

Mrs. Vansittart was slowly unbuttoning and re- 
buttoning her glove, deep in thought. For some 
women can think deeply and talk superficially at the 
same moment. “ Do you know,” she said, with a 
sudden change of voice and manner, “ I have a lurk- 
ing conviction that you know something to-day of 
which you were ignorant yesterday. All knowledge, 
I suppose, leaves its mark. Something about Otto 
Von Holzen, I suspect. Ah, Tony, if you know some- 
thing, tell it to me. If you hold a strong card, let 
me play it. You do not know how I have longed 
and waited — what a miserable little hand I hold 
against this strong man.” 

She was serious enough now. Her voice had a 
ring of hopelessness in it, as if she knew that limit 
against which a woman is fated to throw herself 
when she tries to injure a man who has no love for 
her. If the love be there, then is she strong indeed ; 
but without it, what can she do ? It is the little 
more that is so much, and the little less that is such 
worlds away. 


194 


FROM THE PAST 


Cornish did not deny the knowledge which she 
ascribed to him, but merely shook his head, and Mrs. 
Vansittart suddenly changed her manner again. She 
was quick and clever enough to know that whatever 
account stood open between Cornish and Von Hol- 
zen, the reckoning must be between them alone, 
without the help of any woman. 

“Then you will remain in-doors,” she said, rising, 
“and recover from your — strange headache — and 
not go near the Malgamite works, nor see Percy Ro- 
den or Otto Von Holzen — and let me have my little 
try — that is all I ask ?” 

“Yes,” answered Cornish, reluctantly; “but I 
think you would be wiser to leave Von Holzen to 
me.” 

“Ah !” said Mrs. Vansittart, with one of her quick 
glances. “ You think that ?” 

She paused on the threshold, then shrugged her 
shoulders and passed out. 

She hurried home, and there wrote a note to Percy 
Roden. 

“ Dear Mr. Roden, — It seems a long time since I saw 
you last, though perhaps it only seems so to me. I shall be 
at home at five o’clock this evening, if you care to take pity 
on a lonely countrywoman. If I should be out riding when 
you come, please await my return. 

“ Yours very truly, 

“ Edith Vansittart.” 

She closed the letter, with a little cruel frown, and 
despatched it by the hand of a servant. Quite early 
in the afternoon she put on her habit, but did not 
go straight down-stairs, although her horse was at 
the door. She went to the library instead — a small, 
i95 


RODEN’S CORNER 


large- windowed room, looking on Oranje Straat. 
From a drawer in her writing-table she took a key 
and examined it closely before slipping it into her 
pocket. It was a new key, with the file marks still 
upon it. 

“A clumsy expedient,” she said. “But the end is 
so desirable that the means must not be too scrupu- 
lously considered.” 

She rode down Kazerne Straat and through the 
wood by the Leyden road. By turning to the left 
she soon made her way to the east dunes, and thus, 
describing a circle, rode slowly back towards Sche- 
veningen. She knew her way, it appeared, to the 
Malgamite works. Leaving her horse in the care of 
the groom, she walked to the gate of the works, 
which was opened to her by the door-keeper, after 
some hesitation. The man was a German, and there- 
fore, perhaps, more amenable to Mrs. Vansittart’s im- 
perious arguments. 

•“ I must see Herr Von Holzen without delay,” she 
said. “ Show me his office.” 

The man pointed out the building. “ But the Herr 
Professor is in the factory,” he said. “ It is mixing- 
day to-day. I will, however, fetch him.” 

Mrs. Vansittart walked slowly towards the office 
where Roden had told her that the safe stood, 
wherein the prescription and other papers were se- 
cured. She knew it was mixing-day, and that Von 
Holzen would be in the factory. She had sent Roden 
on a fool’s errand to Park Straat to await her re- 
turn there. Was she going to succeed? Would she 
be left alone for a few moments in that little office 
with the safe ? She fingered the key in her pocket 
—a duplicate obtained at great risk, with infinite 
196 


FROM THE PAST 


difficulty, by the stratagem of borrowing Roden’s 
keys to open an old and disused desk one evening in 
Park Straat. She had conceived the plan herself, 
had carried it out herself, as all must who wish to 
succeed in a human design. She was quite aware 
that the plan was crude and almost childish, but the 
gain was great, and it is often the simplest means 
that succeed. The secret of the manufacture of 
Malgamite — written in black and white — might 
prove to be Von Holzen’s death - warrant. Mrs. 
Vansittart had to fight in her own way or not fight 
at all. She could not understand the slower, surer 
methods of Mr. Wade and Cornish, who appeared to 
be waiting and wasting time. 

The German door-keeper accompanied her to the 
office, and opened the door after knocking and re- 
ceiving no answer. 

“Will the high-born take a seat?” he said. “I 
shall not be long.” 

“ There is no need to hurry,” said Mrs. Vansittart 
to herself. 

And before the door was quite closed she was on 
her feet again. The office was bare and orderly. 
Even the waste -paper baskets were empty. The 
books were locked away and the desks were clear. 
But the small green safe stood in the corner. Mrs. 
Vansittart went towards it, key in hand. The key 
was the right one. It had only been selected by 
guess-work from among a number on Roden’s bunch. 
It slipped into the lock and turned smoothly ; but the 
door would not move. She tugged and wrenched at 
the handle, then turned it accidentally, and the heavy 
door swung open. There were two drawers at the 
bottom of the safe which were not locked, and con- 
197 


RODEN’S CORNER 


tained neatly folded papers. Her fingers were among 
these in a moment. The papers were folded and 
tied together. Many of the bundles were labelled. 
A long, narrow envelope lay at the bottom of the 
drawer. She seized it quickly and turned it over. 
It bore no address nor any superscription. “Ah !” 
she said, breathlessly, and slipped her finger within 
the flap of the envelope. Then she hesitated for a 
moment, and turned on her heel. Von Holzen was 
standing in the doorway looking at her. 

They stared at each other for a moment in silence. 
Mrs. Vansittart’s lips were drawn back, showing her 
even, white teeth. Von Holzen’s quiet eyes were 
wide open, so that the white showed all around the 
dark iris. Then he sprang at her without a word. 
She was a lithe, strong woman, taller than he, or 
else she would have fallen. Instead, she stood her 
ground, and he, failing to get a grasp of her wrist, 
stumbled sideways against the table. In a moment 
she had run round it, and again they stared at each 
other, without a word, across the table where Percy 
Roden kept the books of the Malgamite scheme. 

A slow smile came to Von Holzen’s face, which 
was colorless always, and now a sort of gray. He 
turned on his heel, walked to the door, and, locking 
it, slipped the key into his pocket. Then he returned 
to Mrs. Vansittart. Neither spoke. No explanation 
was at that moment necessary. He lifted the table 
bodily and set it aside against the wall. Then he 
went slowly towards her, holding out his hand for 
the unaddressed envelope, which she held behind 
her back. He stood for a moment holding out his 
hand, while his strong will went out to meet hers. 
Then he sprang at her again and seized her two 
198 


FROM THE PAST 

wrists. The strength of his arms was enormous, for 
he was a deep-chested man, and had been a gymnast. 
The struggle was a short one, and Mrs. Vansittart 
dropped the envelope helplessly from her paralyzed 
fingers. He picked it up. 

“ You are the wife of Karl Vansittart,” he said, in 
German. 

“ I am his widow,” she replied, and her breath 
caught, for she was still shaken by the physical and 
moral realization of her absolute helplessness in his 
hands, and she saw in a flash of thought the ques- 
tion in his mind as to whether he could afford to let 
her leave the room alive. 

“ Give me the key with which you opened the 
safe,” he said, coldly. 

She had replaced the key in her pocket, and now 
sought it with a shaking hand. She gave it to him 
without a word. Morally she would not acknowl- 
edge herself beaten, and the bitterness of that mo- 
ment was the self-contempt with which she realized 
a physical cowardice which she had hitherto deemed 
quite impossible. For the flesh is always surprised 
by its own weakness. 

Von Holzen looked at the key critically, turning 
it over in order to examine the workmanship. It 
was clumsily enough made, and he doubtless guessed 
how she had obtained it. Then he glanced at her 
as she stood breathless with a colorless face and 
compressed lips. 

“ I hope I did not hurt you,” he said, quietly, 
thereby putting in a dim and far-off claim to great- 
ness. For it is hard not to triumph in absolute 
victory. 

She shook her head with a twisted smile and 
199 


RODEN’S CORNER 

looked down at her hands, which were still helpless. 
There were bands of bright red round the white 
wrists. Her gloves lay on the table. She went 
towards them and numbly took them up. He was 
impassive still, and his face, which had flushed a few 
moments earlier, slowly regained its usual calm pal- 
lor. It was this very calmness, perhaps, that sud- 
denly incensed Mrs. Vansittart. Or it may have 
been that she had regained her courage. 

“Yes,” she cried, with a sort of break in her voice 
that made it strident. “Yes. I am Karl Vansit- 
tart’s wife, and I — cared for him. Do you know 
what that means ? But you can’t. All that side of 
life is a closed book to such as you. It means that 
if you had been a hundred times in the right and he 
always in the wrong, I should still have believed in 
him and distrusted you — should still have cared for 
him and hated you. But he was not guilty. He 
was in the right and you were wrong. And to screen 
your paltry name you sacrificed Karl, and the hap- 
piness of two people who had just begun to be 
happy. It means that I shall not rest until I have 
made you pay for what you have done. I have never 
lost sight of you — and never shall — ” 

She paused and looked at his impassive face with 
a strange, dull curiosity as she spoke of the future, 
as if wondering whether she had a future, or had 
reached the end of her life, here, at this moment, 
in the little plank -walled office of the Malgamite 
works. But her courage rose steadily. It is only 
afar off that Death is terrible. When we actually 
stand in his presence we usually hold up our heads 
and face him quietly enough. 

“You may have other enemies,” she continued. 

200 


FROM THE PAST 


“ I know you have — men, too; but none of them will 
last so long as I shall, none of them is to be feared 
( as I am — ” 

She stopped again in a fury, for he was obviously 
waiting for her to pause for mere want of breath, as 
if her words could be of no weight. 

“ — if you fear anything on earth,” she said, ac- 
knowledging his one merit despite herself. 

“ I fear you so little,” he answered, going to the 
door and unlocking it, “ that you may go.” 

Her whip lay on the floor. He picked it up and 
handed it to her gravely, without a bow, without a 
shade of triumph or the smallest suspicion of sar- 
casm. There was perhaps the nucleus of a great 
man in Otto Von Holzen, after all, for there was 
no smallness in his mind. He opened the door and 
stood aside for her to pass out. 

“ It is not because you do not fear me — that you 
let me go,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “But — because 
you are afraid of Tony Cornish.” 

And she went out, wondering whether that shot 
had told or missed. 


CHAPTER XXI 


A COMBINED FORCE 

“Hear, but be faithful to your interest still. 

Secure your heart, then fool with whom you will ” 

Mrs. Vansittart walked to the gate of the Mal- 
gamite works, thinking that Von Holzen was follow- 
ing her on the noiseless sand. At the gate, which 
the porter threw open on seeing her approach, she 
turned and found that she was alone. Von Holzen 
was walking quietly back towards the factory. He 
was so busy making his fortune that he could not 
give Mrs. Vansittart more than a few minutes. She 
bit her lip as she went towards her horse. Neglect 
is no balm to the wounds of the defeated. 

She mounted her horse and looked at her watch. It 
was nearly five o’clock, and Percy Roden was doubt- 
less waiting for her in Park Straat. It is a woman’s 
business to know what is expected of her. Mrs. Van- 
sittart recalled in a very matter-of-fact way the word- 
ing of her letter to Roden. She brushed some dust 
from her habit, and made sure that her hair was tidy. 
Then she fell into deep thought, and set her mind 
in a like order for the work that lay before her. A 
man’s deepest schemes in love are child’s play beside 
the woman’s schemes that meet or frustrate his own. 
Mrs. Vansittart rode rapidly home to Park Straat. 

202 


A COMBINED FORCE 


Mr. Roden, the servant told her, was awaiting her 
return in the drawing-room. She walked slowly up- 
stairs. Some victories are only to be won with arms 
that hurt the bearer. Mrs. Vansittart’s mind was 
warped, or she must have known that she was going 
to pay too dearly for her revenge. She was sacri- 
ficing invaluable memories to a paltry hatred. 

“Ah !” she said to Roden, whose manner betrayed 
the recollection of her invitation to him. “ So I have 
kept you waiting — a minute, perhaps, for each day 
that you have stayed away from Park Straat.” 

Roden laughed, with a shade of embarrassment, 
which she was quick to detect. 

. “ Is it your sister,” she asked, “ who has induced 
you to stay away ?” 

“ Dorothy has nothing but good to say of you,” 
he answered. 

“ Then it is Herr Von Holzen,” said Mrs. Vansit- 
tart, laying aside her gloves and turning towards 
the tea-table. She spoke quietly and rather indif- 
ferently, as some do of persons who are removed by 
a social grade. “ I have never told you, I believe, that 
I happen to know something of your — what is he ? — 
your foreman. He has probably warned you against 
me. My husband once employed this Von Holzen, 
and was, I believe, robbed by him. We never knew 
the man socially, and I have always suspected that 
he bore us some ill feeling on that account. You 
remember — in this room, when you brought him to 
call soon after your works were built — that he re- 
ferred to having met my husband. Doubtless with 
a view to finding out how much I knew, or if I was 
in reality the wife of Charles Vansittart. But I did 
not choose to enlighten him.” She had poured out 
203 


RODEN’S CORNER 


tea while she spoke. Her hands were unsteady still, 
and she drew down the sleeve of her habit to hide 
the discoloration of her wrist. She turned rather 
suddenly and saw on Roden’s face the confession 
that it had been due to Von Holzen’s influence that 
he had absented himself from her drawing-room. 
“ However,” she said, in a final voice, as if dismiss- 
ing a subject of small importance — “however, I sup- 
pose Herr Von Holzen is rising in the world, and has 
the sensitive vanity of persons in that trying con- 
dition.” 

She sat down slowly, remembering her pretty fig- 
ure in its smart habit. Roden’s slow eyes noted the 
pretty figure also, which she observed, one may be 
sure. 

“ Tell me your news,” she said. “ You look tired 
and ill. It is hard work making one’s fortune. Be 
sure that you know what you want to buy before 
you make it, or afterwards you may find that it has 
not been worth while to have worked so hard.” 

“ Perhaps what I want is not to be bought,” he 
said, with his eyes on the carpet. For he was an 
awkward player at this light game. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Then it must be either 
worthless or priceless.” 

He looked at her, but he did not speak, and those 
who are quick to detect the fleeting shade of pathos 
might have seen it in the glance of the tired eyes. 
For Percy Roden was only clever as a financier, and 
women have no use for such cleverness — only for 
the results of it. Roden was conscious of making no 
progress with Mrs. Vansittart, who handled him as a 
cat handles a disabled mouse while watching an- 
other hole. 


204 


A COMBINED FORCE 

“You have been busier than ever, I suppose,” she 
said, “since you have had no time to remember 
your friends.” 

“ Yes,” answered Roden, brightening. He was so 
absorbed in the most absorbing and lasting employ- 
ment of which the human understanding is capable 
that he could talk of little else, even to Mrs. Van- 
sittart. “ Yes, we have been very busy, and are turn- 
ing out nearly ten tons a day now. And we have 
had trouble from a quarter in which we did not ex- 
pect it. Von Holzen has been much worried, I 
know, though he never says anything. He may not 
be a gentleman, Mrs. Vansittart, but he is a wonder- 
ful man.” 

“Ah!” said Mrs. Vansittart, indifferently, and 
something in her manner made him all the more 
desirous of explaining his reasons for associating 
himself with a person who, as she had subtly and 
flatteringly hinted more than once, was far beneath 
him from a social point of view. This desire ren- 
dered him less guarded than it was perhaps wise to 
be under the circumstances. 

“Yes, he is a very clever man — a genius, I think. 
He rises to each difficulty without any effort, and 
every day shows me new evidence of his foresight. 
He has done more than you think in the Malgamite 
works. His share of the work has been greater than 
anybody knows. I am only the financier, you under- 
stand. I know about book-keeping and about — 
money — how it should be handled — that is all.” 

“You are too modest, I think,” said Mr. Vansit- 
tart, gravely. “You forget that the scheme was 
yours ; you forget all that you did in London.” 

“Y es — while Von Holzen was doing more here. 

205 


RODEN’S CORNER 


He had the more difficult task to perform. Of course 
I did my share in getting the thing up. It would be 
foolish to deny that. I suppose I have a head on 
my shoulders, like other people.” 

And Mr. Percy Roden, with his hand at his mus- 
tache, smiled a somewhat fatuous smile. He thought, 
perhaps, that a woman will love a man the more for 
being a good man of business. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Vansittart, softly. 

“ But I should like Von Holzen to have his due,” 
said Roden, rather grandly. “ He has done won- 
ders, and no one quite realizes that — except, perhaps, 
Cornish.” 

“Indeed ! Does Mr. Cornish give Herr Von Hol- 
zen his due, then?” 

“ Cornish does his best to upset Von Holzen’s plans 
at every turn. He does not understand business at 
all. When that sort of man goes into business he 
invariably gets into trouble. He has what I suppose 
he calls scruples. It comes, I imagine, from not hav- 
ing been brought up to it.” Roden spoke rather 
hotly. He was of a jealous disposition, and disliked 
Mrs. Vansittart’s attitude towards Cornish. “ But 
he is no match for Von Holzen,” he continued, “as 
he will find, to his cost. Von Holzen is not the sort 
of man to stand any kind of interference.” 

“Ah?” said Mrs. Vansittart again, in the slightly 
questioning and indifferent manner with which she 
received all defence of Otto Von Holzen, and which 
had the effect of urging Roden to further explana- 
tion. 

“ He is not a man I should care to cross myself,” 
he said, determined to secure Mrs. Vansittart’s full 
attention. “He has the whole of the Malgamiters 
206 


A COMBINED FORCE 


at his beck and call, and is pretty powerful, I can 
tell you. They are a desperate set of fellows : men 
engaged in a dangerous industry do not wear kid 
gloves.” 

Mrs. Vansittart was watching him across the low 
tea-table ; for Roden rarely looked at his interloc- 
utor. He had more of her attention than he per- 
haps suspected. 

“ Ah !” she said, rather more indifferently than 
before. “ I think you exaggerate Herr Von Holzen’s 
importance in the world.” 

“ I do not exaggerate the danger into which Cor- 
nish will run if he is not careful,” retorted Roden, 
half sullenly. 

There was a ring of anxiety in his voice. Mrs. 
Vansittart glanced sharply at him. It was borne in 
upon her that Roden himself was afraid of Von 
Holzen. This was more serious than it had at first 
appeared. There are periods in every man’s history 
when human affairs suddenly appear to become un- 
manageable, and the course of events gets beyond 
any sort of control — when the hand at the helm fal- 
ters, and even the managing female of the family 
hesitates to act. Roden seemed to have reached 
such a crisis now, and Mrs. Vansittart, charm she 
never so wisely, could not brush the frown of anxiety 
from his brow. He was in no mood for love-making, 
and men cannot call up this fleeting humor, as a 
woman can, when it is wanted. So they sat and 
talked of many things, both glancing at the dock 
with a surreptitious eye. They were not the first 
man and woman to go hunting Cupid with the best 
will in the world — only to draw a blank. 

At length Roden rose from his chair with slow, 
20 7 


RODEN’S CORNER 


lazy movements. Physically and morally he seemed 
to want tightening up. 

“I must go back to the works,” he said. “We 
work late to-night.” 

“Then do not tell Herr Von Holzen where you 
have been,” replied Mrs. Vansittart, with a warning 
smile. Then, on the threshold, with a gravity and 
a glance that sent him away happy, she added, “ I 
do not want you to discuss me with Otto Von Holzen, 
you understand !” 

She stood with her hand on the bell, looking at 
the clock, while he went down-stairs. The moment 
she heard the street door closed behind him she 
rang sharply. 

“The brougham,” she said to the servant, “at 
once.” 

Ten minutes later she was rattling down Maurits 
Kade towards the Villa des Dunes. A deep bank 
of clouds had risen from the west, completely ob- 
scuring the sun, so that it seemed already to be twi- 
light. Indeed, nature itself appeared to be deceived, 
and as the carriage left the town behind and emerged 
into the sandy quiet of the suburbs, the countless 
sparrows in the lime-trees were preparing for the 
night. The trees themselves were shedding an 
evening odor, while from canal and dike and ditch 
there arose that subtle smell of damp weed and 
v grass which hangs over the whole of Holland all 
iight. 

“The place smells of calamity,” said Mrs. Vansit- 
tart to herself as she quitted the carriage and walked 
quickly along the sandy path to the Villa des Dunes. 
Dorothy was in the garden, and, seeing her, came to 
the gate. Mrs. Vansittart had changed her riding- 
208 


A COMBINED FORCE 


habit for one of the dark silks that she usually wore, 
but she had forgotten to put on any gloves. 

“ Come,” she said, rapidly, taking Dorothy’s hand 
and holding it — “ come to the seat at the end of the 
garden where we sat one evening when we dined 
alone together. I do not want to go in-doors. I 
am nervous, I suppose. I have allowed myself to 
give way to panic like a child in the dark. I felt 
lonely in Park Straat, with a house full of servants, 
so I came to you.” 

“ I think there is going to be a thunder-storm,” 
said Dorothy. 

And Mrs. Vansittart broke into a sudden laugh. 

“ I knew you would say that. Because you are 
modern and practical — or, at all events, you show a 
practical face to the world, which is better. Yes, 
one may say that much for the modern girl, at all 
events — she keeps her head. As to her heart — well, 
perhaps she has not got one.” 

“ Perhaps not,” admitted Dorothy. 

They had reached the seat now, and sat down be- 
neath the branches of a weeping-willow, trimly trained 
in the accurate Dutch fashion. Mrs. Vansittart 
glanced at her companion and gave a little wise nod. 

“ I did well to come to you,” she said, “ for you 
have not many words. You have a sense of humor 
— that saving sense which so few people possess — 
and I suspect you to be a person of action. I came 
in a panic, which is still there, but in a modified de- 
gree. One is always more nervous for one’s friends 
than for one’s self. Is it not so? It is for Tony 
Cornish that I fear.” 

Dorothy looked steadily straight in front of her, 
and there was a short silence. 

209 


o 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ I do not know why he stays in Holland, and I 
wish he would go home,” continued Mrs. Vansit- 
tart. “ It is unreasoning, I know, and foolish, but I 
am convinced that he is running into danger.” She 
stopped suddenly, and laid her hand upon Dorothy’s ; 
for she had caught many foreign ways and gestures. 
“ Listen,” she said, in a lower tone. “ It is useless 
for you and me to mince matters. The Malgamite 
scheme is a terrible crime, and Tony Cornish means 
to stop it. Surely you and I have long suspected 
that. I know Otto Von Holzen. He killed my hus- 
band. He is a most dangerous man. He is attempt- 
ing to frighten Tony Cornish away from here, and 
he does not understand the sort of person he is deal- 
ing with. One does not frighten persons of the stamp 
of Tony Cornish, whether man or woman. I have 
made Tony promise not to leave his rooms to-day. 
For to-morrow I cannot answer. You understand?” 

“Yes,” answered Dorothy, with a sudden light in 
her eyes, “ I understand.” 

“ Your brother must take care of himself. I care 
nothing for Lord Ferriby or any others concerned 
in this, but only for Tony Cornish, for whom I have 
an affection, for he was part of my past life — when 
I was happy. As for the Malgamiters, they and 
their works may — go hang !” And Mrs. Vansittart 
snapped her fingers. “ Do you know Major White ?” 
she asked, suddenly. 

“ Yes ; I have seen him once.” 

“ So have I — only once. But for a woman once 
is often enough — is it not so? — to enable one to 
judge. I wish we had him here.” 

“ He is coming,” answered Dorothy. “ I think he 
is coming to-morrow. When I saw Mr. Cornish yes- 
210 


A COMBINED FORCE 


terday, he told me that he expected him. I believe 
he wrote for him to come. He also wrote to Mr. 
Wade, the banker, asking him to come.” 

“Then he found things worse than he expected. 
He has, in a sense, sent for reinforcements. When 
does Major White arrive — in the morning ?” 

“ No ; not till the evening.” 

“ Then he comes by Flushing,” said Mrs. Vansit- 
tart, practically. “ You are thinking of something. 
What is it ?” 

“ I was wondering how I could see some of the 
Malgamite- workers to-morrow. I know some of 
them, and it is from them that the danger may be 
expected. They are easily led, and Herr Von Holzen 
would not scruple to make use of them.” 

“Ah!” said Mrs. Vansittart, “you have guessed 
that, too. I have more than guessed it — I know it. 
You must see these men to-morrow.” 

“ I will,” answered Dorothy, simply. 

Mrs. Vansittart rose and held out her hand. “Yes,” 
she said, “ I came to the right person. You are calm, 
and keep your head ; as to the other, perhaps that 
is in safe -keeping, too. Good -night, and come to 
lunch with me to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


GRATITUDE 

“ On se guirit de la bienfaisance par la connaissance de ceux qu'on 
oblige ” 

“ Can you tell me if there is a moon to-night ?” 
Mrs. Vansittart asked a porter in the railway sta- 
tion at the Hague. The man stared at her for a mo- 
ment, then realized that the question was a serious 
one. 

“ I will ask one of the engine-drivers, my lady,” 
he answered, with his hand at the peak of his cap. 

It was past nine o’clock, and Mrs. Vansittart had 
been waiting nearly half an hour for the Flush- 
ing train. Her carriage was walking slowly up and 
down beneath the glass roof of the entrance to the 
railway station. She had taken a ticket in order to 
gain access to the platform, and was almost alone 
there with the porters. Her glance travelled back- 
ward and forward between the clock and the western 
sky, visible beneath the great arch of the station. 
The evening was a clear one, for the month of June 
still lingered, but the twilight was at hand. The 
Flushing train was late to-night of all nights, and 
Mrs. Vansittart stamped her foot with impatience. 
What was worse, was Dorothy Roden’s lateness. 
Dorothy and Mrs. Vansittart, like two generals on 
212 


GRATITUDE 


the eve of a battle, had been exchanging hurried 
notes all day ; and Dorothy had promised to meet 
. Mrs. Vansittart at the station on the arrival of the 
train. 

“ The moon is rising now, my lady — a half-moon,” 
said the porter, approaching with that leisureli- 
ness which characterizes railway porters between 
trains. 

“ Why does your stupid train not come ?” asked 
Mrs. Vansittart, with unreasoning anger. 

“ It has been signalled, my lady — a few minutes 
now.” 

Mrs. Vansittart gave a quick sigh of relief and 
turned on her heel. She had long been unable to 
remain quietly in one place. She saw Dorothy com- 
ing up the slope to the platform. At last matters 
were taking a turn for the better — except, indeed, 
Dorothy’s face, which was set and white. 

“I have found out something,” she said at once, 
and speaking quickly but steadily. “ It is for to- 
night, between half past nine and ten.” 

She had her watch in her hand, and compared it 
quickly with the station clock as she spoke. 

“I have secured Uncle Ben,” she said — all the ridi- 
cule of the name seemed to have vanished long ago. 
“ He is drunk, and therefore cunning. It is only 
when he is sober that he is stupid. I have him in a 
cab down-stairs, and have told your man to watch 
him. I have been to Mr. Cornish’s rooms again, and 
he has not come in. He has not been in since morn- 
ing, and they do not know where he is. No one 
knows where he is.” 

Dorothy’s lip quivered for a moment, and she held 
it with her teeth. Mrs. Vansittart touched her arm 
213 


RODEN’S CORNER 

lightly with her gloved fingers — a quick, woman’s 
gesture. 

“ I went up-stairs to his rooms,” continued Dorothy. 
“It is no good thinking of etiquette now — or pre- 
tending — ” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Vansittart, hurriedly, so that the 
sentence was never finished. 

“I found nothing except two torn envelopes in 
the waste -paper basket. One in an uneducated 
hand — perhaps feigned. The other was Otto Von 
Holzen’s writing.” 

“Ah! In Otto Von Holzen’s writing — addressed 
to Tony at the ‘Zwaan ’ at Scheveningen ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then Otto Von Holzen knows where Tony is 
staying, at all events. We have learned something. 
You have kept the envelopes?” 

“ Yes.” 

They both turned at the rumble of the train out- 
side the station. Thq great engine came clanking in 
over the points, its lamp glaring like the eye of some 
monster. 

“Provided Major White is in the train,” muttered 
Mrs. Vansittart, tapping on the pavement with her 
foot. “ If he is not in the train, Dorothy — ” 

“ Then we must go alone.” 

Mrs. Vansittart turned and looked her slowly up 
and down. 

“You are a brave woman,” she said, thought- 
fully. 

But Major White was in the train, being a man of 
his word in small things as well as in great. They 
saw him pushing his way patiently through the 
crowd of hotel porters and others who had advice 
214 


GRATITUDE 


or their services to offer him. Then he saw Mrs. 
Vansittart and Dorothy, and recognized them. 

“ Give your luggage ticket to the hotel porter and 
let him take it straight to the hotel. You are wanted 
elsewhere.” 

Still Major White was only in his normal condi- 
tion of mild and patient surprise. He had only met 
Mrs. Vansittart twice, and Dorothy as often. He 
did exactly as he was told without asking one of 
those hundred questions which would inevitably 
have been asked by many men and more women 
under such circumstances, and followed the ladies 
out of the crowd. 

“We must talk here,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “One 
cannot do so in a carriage in the streets of the 
Hague.” 

Major White bowed gravely and looked from one 
to the other. He was rather travel- worn, and 
seemed to be feeling the heat. 

“ Tony Cornish has probably written to you about 
his discoveries as to the Malgamite works. We have 
no time to go into that question, however,” said 
Mrs. Vansittart, who was already beginning to be 
impatient with this placid man. “ He has earned 
the enmity of Otto Von Holzen — a man who will 
stop at nothing — and the Malgamiters are being 
raised against him by Von Holzen. Our informa- 
tion is very vague, but we are almost certain that an 
attempt is going to be made on Tony’s life to-night 
between half past nine and ten. You understand?” 

Mrs. Vansittart almost stamped her foot. 

“ Oh yes,” answered White, looking at the station 
clock. “ Twenty minutes’ time.” 

“ We have the information from one of the Malga- 
215 


RODEN’S CORNER 


miters themselves, who knows the time and the 
place, but he is tipsy. He is in a carriage outside 
the station.” 

“ How tipsy ?” asked Major White, and both his 
hearers shrugged their shoulders. 

“ How can we tell you that ?” snapped Mrs. Vansit- 
tart, and Major White dropped his glass from his eye. 

“Where is your brother?” he said, turning to 
Dorothy. He was evidently rather afraid of Mrs. 
Vansittart, as a quick-spoken person not likely to 
have patience with a slow man. 

“ He has gone to Utrecht,” answered Dorothy. 
“And Mr. Von Holzen is not at the works, which 
are locked up. I have just come from there. By a 
lucky chance I met this man Ben, and have brought 
him here.” 

White looked at Dorothy thoughtfully, and some- 
thing in his gaze made her change color. 

“ Let me see this man,” he said, moving towards 
the exit. 

“ He is in that carriage,” said Dorothy, when they 
had reached a quiet corner of the station -yard. 
“ You must be quick. We have only a quarter of an 
hour now. He is an Englishman.” 

White got into the cab with Uncle Ben, who ap- 
peared to be sleeping, and closed the door after him. 
In a few moments he emerged again. 

“ Tell the man to drive to a chemist’s,” he said to 
Mrs. Vansittart. “The fellow is not so bad. I have 
got something out of him, and will get more. Follow 
in your carriage — you and Miss Roden.” 

It was Major White’s turn now to take the lead, 
and Mrs. Vansittart meekly obeyed, though White’s 
movements were so leisurely as to madden her. 

216 


GRATITUDE 


At the chemist’s shop, White descended from the 
carriage and appeared to have some language in 
common with the druggist, for he presently returned 
to the carriage carrying a tumbler. After a mo- 
ment he went to the window of Mrs. Vansittart’s 
neat brougham. 

“ I must bring him in here,” he said. “ You have 
a pair of horses which look as if they could go. Tell 
your man to drive to the pumping-station on the 
dunes, wherever that may be.” 

Then he went and fetched Uncle Ben, whom he 
brought by one arm, in a dislocated condition, trot- 
ting feebly to keep pace with the Major’s long stride. 

Mrs. Vansittart’s coachman must have received 
very decided orders, for he skirted the town at a 
rattling trot, and soon emerged from the streets into 
the quiet of the wood, which was dark and deserted. 
Here, in a sandy and lonely alley, he put the horses 
to a gallop. The carriage swayed and bumped. 
Those inside exchanged no words. From time to 
time Major White shook Uncle Ben, which seemed 
to be a part of his strenuous treatment. 

At length the carriage stopped on the narrow 
road, paved with the little bricks they make at 
Gouda, that leads from Scheveningen to the pump- 
ing-station on the dunes. Major White was the 
first to quit it, dragging Uncle Ben unceremonious- 
ly after him. Then, with his disengaged hand, he 
helped the ladies. He screwed his glass tightly into 
his eye and looked round him with a measuring 
glance. 

“ This place will be as light as day,” he said, “ when 
the moon rises from behind those trees.” 

He drew Uncle Ben aside, and talked with him 
217 


RODEN’S CORNER 


for some time in a low voice. The man was almost 
sober now, but so weak that he could not stand with- 
out assistance. Major White was an advocate, it 
seemed, of heroic measures. He appeared to be ask- 
ing many questions, for Uncle Ben pointed from 
time to time with an unsteady hand into the dark- 
ness. When his mind, muddled with Malgamite and 
drink, failed to rise to the occasion, Major White 
shook him like a sack. After a few minutes’ con- 
versation Ben broke down completely, and sat against 
a sand-bank to weep. Major White left him there 
and went towards the ladies. 

“Will you tell your man,” he said to Mrs. Vansit- 
tart, “to drive back to the junction of the two roads 
and wait there under the trees ?” He paused, look- 
ing dubiously from one to the other. “ And you and 
Miss Roden had better go back with him and stay 
in the carriage.” 

“No,” said Dorothy, quietly. 

“ Oh no !” added Mrs. Vansittart. 

And Major White moistened his lips with an air 
of patient toleration for the ways of a sex which had 
ever been far beyond his comprehension. 

“ It seems,” he said, when the carriage had rolled 
away over the noisy stones, “that we are in good 
time. They do not expect him until nearly ten. He 
has been attempting for some time to get the men 
to refuse to work, and these same men have written 
to ask him to meet them at the works at ten o’clock, 
when Roden is at Utrecht and Von Holzen is out. 
There is no question of reaching the works at all. 
They are going to lie in ambush in a hollow of the 
dunes and knock him on the head about half a mile 
from here— northeast — ” and Major White paused 
218 


GRATITUDE 


in this great conversational effort to consult a small 
gold compass attached to his watch-chain. 

The two women waited patiently. 

“ Fine place, these dunes,” said the Major, after a 
pause. “ Could conceal three thousand men between 
here and Scheveningen.” 

“ But it is not a question of hiding soldiers,” said 
Mrs. Vansittart, sharply, with a movement of the 
head indicative of supreme contempt. 

“No,” admitted White. “Better hide ourselves, 
perhaps. No good standing here where everybody 
can see us. I’ll fetch our friend. Think he’ll sleep 
if we let him. Chemist gave him enough to kill a 
horse.” 

“But haven’t you any plans?” asked Mrs. Vansit- 
tart, in despair. “ What are you going to do ? You 
are. not going to let these brutes kill Tony Cornish? 
Surely you, as a soldier, must know how to meet this 
crisis.” 

“ Oh yes. Not much of a soldier, you know,” an- 
swered White, soothingly, as he moved away towards 
Uncle Ben. “ But I think I know how this business 
ought to be managed. Come along — hide our- 
selves.” 

He led the way across the dunes, dragging Uncle 
Ben by one arm, and keeping in the hollows. The 
two women followed in silence on the silent sand. 
The band at the Kurhaus at Scheveningen was in 
full blast, and the sound of certain time-keeping in- 
struments reached them as they walked towards the 
northeast. 

Once Major White paused and looked back. 

“ Don’t talk,” he said, holding up a large fat hand 
in a ridiculous gesture of warning which he must 
219 


RODEN’S CORNER 


have learned in the nursery. He looked like a large 
baby listening for a bogy in the chimney. 

Once or twice he consulted Uncle Ben, and as 
often glanced at his compass. There was a certain 
skill in his attitude and demeanor, as if he knew ex- 
actly what he was about. Mrs. Vansittart had a 
hundred questions to ask him, but they died on her 
lips. The moon rose suddenly over the distant trees 
and flooded all the sand-hills with light. Major 
White halted his little party in a deep hollow, and 
consulted Uncle Ben in whispers. Then, bidding 
him sit down, he left the three alone in their hiding- 
place and went away by himself. He climbed al- 
most to the summit of a neighboring mound, and 
stopped suddenly, with his face uplifted, as if smell- 
ing something. Like many short-sighted persons, 
he had a keen scent. In a few minutes he came 
back again. 

“ I have found them,” he whispered to Mrs. Van- 
sittart and Dorothy. “ Smelt ’em — like sealing-wax. 
Eleven of them — waiting there for Cornish,” and he 
smiled with a sort of boyish glee. 

“ What are you going to do ?” whispered Mrs. Van- 
sittart. 

“ Thump them,” he answered, and presently went 
back to his post of observation. Uncle Ben had 
fallen asleep, and the two women stood side by side 
waiting in the moonlight. It was chilly, and a keen 
wind swept in from the sea. Dorothy shivered. 
They could still hear certain notes of certain instru- 
ments in the band of the Scheveningen Kurhaus, 
nearly two miles away. It was strange to be within 
sound of such evidences of civilization, and yet in 
such a lonely spot — strange to reflect that eleven 
220 


GRATITUDE 


men were waiting within a few yards of them to 
murder one. And yet they could safely have carried 
out their intention, and have scraped a hole in the 
sand to hide his body, in the certainty that it would 
never be found ; for these dunes are a miniature 
Desert of Sahara, where nothing bids men leave the 
beaten paths, where certain hollows have probably 
never been trodden by the foot of man, and where 
the ever-drifting sand slowly accumulates — a very 
abomination of desolation. 

At length White rose to his feet agilely enough, 
and crept to the brow of the dune. The men were 
evidently moving. Mrs. Vansittart and Dorothy as- 
cended the bank to the spot just vacated by White. 

Only a few dozen yards away they could see the 
black forms of the Malgamiters grouped together 
under the covert of a low hillock. Hidden from 
their sight, Major White was slowly stalking them. 

Dorothy touched Mrs. Vansittart’s arm, and point- 
ed silently in the direction of Scheveningen. A man 
was approaching, alone, across the silvery sand-hills. 
It was Tony Cornish, walking into the trap laid for 
him. Major White saw him also, and, thinking him- 
self unobserved, or from mere habit acquired among 
his men, he moistened the tips of his fingers at his 
lips. 

The Malgamiters moved forward, and White fol- 
lowed them. They took up a position in a hollow 
a few yards away from the foot-path by which 
Cornish must pass. One of their number remained 
behind, crouching on a mound, and evidently report- 
ing progress to his companions below. When Cor- 
nish was within a hundred yards of the ambush, 
White suddenly ran up the bank, and, lifting this 
221 


RODEN’S CORNER 

• 

man bodily, threw him down among his comrades. 
He followed this vigorous attack by charging down 
into the confused mass. In a few moments the Mal- 
gamiters streamed away across the sand-hills like a 
pack of hounds, though pursued and not pursuing. 
They left some of their number on the sand behind 
them, for White was a hard hitter. 

“ Give it to them, Tony !” White cried, with a 
sharp ring of exultation in his voice. “ Knock ’em 
down as they come !” 

For there was only one path, and the Malga- 
miters had to run the gantlet of Tony Cornish, 
who knocked some of them over neatly enough as 
they passed, selecting the big ones and letting the 
others go free. He knew them by the smell of their 
clothes, and guessed their intention readily enough. 

It was a strange scene, and one that left the two 
women, watching it, breathless and eager. 

“ Oh, I wish I were a man !” exclaimed Mrs. Van- 
sittart, with clenched fists. 

They hurried towards Cornish and White, who 
were now alone on the path. White had rolled up 
his sleeve, and was tying his handkerchief round his 
arm with his other hand and his teeth. 

“ It is nothing,” he said. “ One of the devils had a 
knife. Must get my sleeve mended to-morrow.” 


GIVE IT TO THEM, TON\ 










CHAPTER XXIII 


A REINFORCEMENT 
* ‘ P rends moy telle que je suy” 

When Major White came down to breakfast at 
his hotel the next morning, he found the large room 
deserted and the windows thrown open to the sun 
and the garden. He was selecting a table, when a 
step on the veranda made him look up. Standing 
in the window, framed, as it were, by sunshine and 
trees, was Marguerite Wade, in a white dress, with 
demure lips and the complexion of a wild rose. 
She was the incarnation of youth— of that spring- 
time of life of which the sight tugs at the strings 
of older hearts ; for surely that is the only part 
of life which is really and honestly worth the liv- 
ing. 

Marguerite came forward and shook hands grave- 
ly. Major White’s left eyebrow quivered for a mo- 
ment in indication of his usual mild surprise at life 
and its changing surface. 

“ Feeling pretty — bobbish ?” inquired Marguerite, 
earnestly. 

White’s eyebrow went right up and his glass fell. 
“ Fairly bobbish, thank you,” he answered, looking 
at her with stupendous gravity. 

“You look all right, you know.” 

223 


RODEN’S CORNER 

“You should never judge by appearances,” said 
White, with a fatherly severity. 

Marguerite pursed up her lips and looked his stal- 
wart frame up and down in silence. Then she sud- 
denly lapsed into her most confidential manner, like 
a school-girl telling her bosom friend, for the mo- 
ment, all the truth and more than the truth. 

“You are surprised to see me here; thought you 
would be, you know. I knew you were in the hotel 
— saw your boots outside your door last night — 
knew they must be yours. You went to bed very 
early.” 

“I have two pair of boots,” replied the Major, 
darkly. 

“Well, to tell you the truth, I have brought papa 
across. Tony wrote for him to come, and I knew 
papa would be no use by himself, so I came. I told 
you long ago that the Malgamite scheme was up a 
gum-tree, and that seems to be precisely where you 
are.” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ And so I have come over, and papa and I are 
going to put things straight.” 

“ I shouldn’t, if I were you.” 

“Shouldn’t what?” inquired Marguerite. 

“ Shouldn’t put other people’s affairs straight. It 
does not pay, especially if other people happen to be 
up a gum-tree — make yourself all sticky, you know.” 

Marguerite looked at him doubtfully. 

“ Ah !” she said. “ That’s what — is it ?” 

“ That’s what,” admitted Major White. 

“ That is the difference, I suppose, between a man 
and a woman,” said Marguerite, sitting down at a 
small table where breakfast had been laid for two. 

224 


A REINFORCEMENT 


“ A man looks on at things going — well, to the dogs 
— and smokes and thinks it isn’t his business. A 
woman thinks the whole world is her business.” 

“ So it is, in a sense — it is her doing, at all events.” 

Marguerite had turned to beckon to the waiter, 
and she paused to look back over her shoulder with 
shrewd, clear eyes. 

“ Ah !” she said, mystically. Then she addressed 
herself to the waiter, calling him “ Kellner,” and 
speaking to him in German, in the full assurance 
that it would be his native tongue. 

“ I have told him,” she explained to White, “ to 
bring your little coffee-pot and your little milk-jug 
and your little pat of butter to this table.” 

“ So I understood.” 

“Ah! Then you know German?” inquired Mar- 
guerite, with another doubtful glance. 

“ I get twopence a day extra pay for knowing 
German.” 

Marguerite paused in her selection of a breakfast 
roll from a silver basket containing that Continental 
choice of breads which look so different and taste so 
much alike. 

“ Seems to me,” she said, confidentially, “ that you 
know more than you appear to know.” 

“ Not such a fool as I look, in fact.” 

“That is about the size of it,” admitted Marguerite, 
gravely. “Tony always says that the world sees 
more than any one suspects. Perhaps he is right.” 

And both happening to look up at this moment, 
their glances met across the little table. 

“Tony often is right,” said Major White. 

There was a pause, during which Marguerite at- 
tended to the two small coffee-pots for which she 
p 225 


RODEN’S CORNER 


had such a youthful and outspoken contempt. The 
privileges of her sex were still new enough to her 
to afford a certain pleasure in pouring out beverages 
for other people to drink. 

“ Why is Tony so fond of the Hague ? Who is 
Mrs. Vansittart ?” she asked, without looking up. 

Major White looked stolidly out of the open win- 
dow for a few moments before answering. 

“Two questions don’t make an answer.’’ 

“ Not these two questions ?” asked Marguerite, 
with a sudden laugh. 

“ No ; Mrs. Vansittart is a widow, young, and what 
they usually call ‘ charming,’ I believe. She is clever, 
yes, very clever ; and she was, I suppose, fond of Van- 
sittart ; and that is the whole story, I take it.” 

“ Not exactly a cheery story.” 

“ No true stories are,” returned the Major, gravely. 

But Marguerite shook her head. In her wisdom 
— that huge wisdom of life as seen from the thresh- 
old — she did not believe Mrs. Vansittart’s story. 

“ Yes, but novelists and people take a true story 
and patch it up at the end. Perhaps most people 
do that with their lives, you know ; perhaps Mrs. 
Vansittart — ” 

“Won’t do that,” said the Major, staring in a stu- 
pid way out of the window with vacant, short-sight- 
ed eyes. “ Not even if Tony suggested it — which 
he won’t do.” 

“ You mean that Tony is not a patch upon the 
late Mr. Vansittart — that is what you mean,” said 
Marguerite, condescendingly. “ Then why does he 
stay in the Hague ?” 

Major White shrugged his shoulders and lapsed 
into a stolid silence, broken only by a demand made 
226 


A REINFORCEMENT 


presently by Marguerite to the waiter for more bread 
and more butter. She looked at her companion once 
or twice, and it is perhaps not astonishing that she 
again concluded that he must be as dense as he look- 
ed. It is a mistake that many of her sex have made 
regarding men. 

“ Do you know Miss Roden ?” she asked, sudden- 
ly. “I have heard a good deal about her from Joan.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Is she pretty ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Very pretty ?” persisted Marguerite. 

“ Yes,” replied the Major. And they continued 
their breakfast in silence. 

Marguerite appeared to have something to think 
about. Major White was in the habit of stating that 
he never thought, and certainly appearances bore 
him out. 

“ Your father is late,” he said at length. 

“ Yes,” answered Marguerite. “ Because he was 
afraid to ring the bell for hot water. Papa has a 
rooted British conviction that Continental chamber- 
maids always burst into your room if you ring the 
bell, whether the door is locked or not. He is noth- 
ing if not respectable, poor old dear — would give 
points to any bishop in the land.” 

As she spoke her father came into the room, look- 
ing, as his daughter had stated, eminently British 
and respectable. He shook hands with Major White, 
and seemed pleased to see him. The Major was, in 
truth, a man after his own heart, and one whom he 
looked upon as solid. For Mr. Wade belonged to a 
solid generation that liked the andante of life to be 
played in good, heavy chords, and looked with sus- 
227 


RODEN’S CORNER 


picious eyes upon brilliancy of execution or light- 
ness of touch. 

“ I have had a note from Cornish,” he said, “ who 
suggests a meeting at this hotel this afternoon to 
discuss our future action. The other side have, it 
appears, written to Lord Ferriby to come over to 
the Hague.” There had in Mr. Wade’s life usually 
been that “other side,” which he had treated with a 
good, honest respect so long as they proved them- 
selves worthy of it, but which he crushed the mo- 
ment they forgot themselves. For there was in this 
British banker a vast spirit of honest, open antago- 
nism, by which he and his likes have built up a scat- 
tered empire on this planet. “At three o’clock,” he 
concluded, lifting the cover of a silver dish which 
Marguerite had sent back to the kitchen awaiting 
her father’s arrival. “And what will you do, my 
dear ?” he said, turning to her. 

“ I ?” replied Marguerite, who always knew her 
own mind. “ I will take a carriage and drive down 
to the Villa des Dunes, to see Dorothy Roden. I 
have a note for her from Joan.” 

And Mr. Wade turned to his breakfast with an ap- 
petite in no way diminished by the knowledge that 
the “other side” were about to take action. 

At three o’clock the carriage was awaiting Mar- 
guerite at the door of the hotel, but for some reason 
Marguerite lingered in the porch, asking questions, 
and absolutely refusing to drive all the way to Sche- 
veningen by the side of the “ Queen’s Canal.” When 
at length she turned to get in, Tony Cornish was 
coming across the Toornoifeld under the trees ; for 
the Hague is the shadiest city in the world, with 
forest trees growing amid its great houses. 

228 


A REINFORCEMENT 


“ Ah !” said Marguerite, holding out her hand. 
“ You see I have come across to give you all a leg- 
up. Seems to me we are going to have rather a 
spree.” 

“ The spree,” replied Cornish, with his light laugh, 
“ has already begun.” 

Marguerite drove away towards the Hague wood, 
and disappeared among the transparent green shad- 
ows of that wonderful forest. The man had been 
instructed to take her to the Villa des Dunes by way 
of the Leyden Road, making a round in the woods. 
It was at a point near the farthest outskirts of the 
forest that Marguerite suddenly turned at the sight 
of a man sitting upon a bench at the roadside read- 
ing a sheet of paper. 

“ That,” she said to herself, “ is the Herr Professor 
— but I cannot remember his name.” 

Marguerite was naturally a sociable person. In- 
deed, a woman usually stops an old and half-forgotten 
acquaintance, while men are accustomed to let such 
by-gones go. She told the driver to turn round and 
drive back again. The man upon the bench had 
scarce looked up as she passed. He had the air of a 
German, which suggestion was accentuated by the 
solitude of his position and the poetic surroundings 
which he had selected. A German, be it recorded to 
his credit, has a keen sense of the beauties of nature, 
and would rather drink his beer before a fine out- 
look than in a comfortable chair in-doors. When 
Marguerite returned, this man looked up again with 
the absorbed air of one repeating something in his 
mind. When he perceived that she was undoubted- 
ly coming towards himself, he stood up with his 
heels clapped together, and took off his hat. He was 
229 


RODEN’S CORNER 


a small, square-built man, with upright hair turning 
to gray, and a quiet, thoughtful, clean-shaven face. 
His attitude, and indeed his person, dimly suggested 
some pictures that have been painted of the great 
Napoleon. His measuring glance — as if the eyes 
were weighing the face it looked upon — distinctly 
suggested his great prototype. 

“You do not remember me, Herr Professor,” said 
Marguerite, holding out her hand with a frank smile. 
“You have forgotten Dresden and the chemistry 
classes at Fraulein Weber’s?” 

“ No, Fraulein ; I remember those classes,” the 
professor answered, with a grave bow. 

“And you remember the girl who dropped the 
sulphuric acid into the something of potassium? I 
nearly made a great discovery then, mein Herr.” 

“You nearly made the greatest discovery of all, 
Fraulein. Yes, I remember now — Fraulein Wade.” 

“Yes, I am Marguerite Wade,” she answered, look- 
ing at him with a little frown, “ but I can’t remem- 
ber your name. You were always Herr Professor. 
And we never called anything by its right name in 
the chemistry classes, you know ; that was part of the 
— er — trick. We called water H2, or something like 
that. We called you J. H. U., Herr Professor.” 

“What does that mean, Fraulein?” 

“Jolly hard up,” returned Marguerite, with a 
laugh, which suddenly gave place, with a bewilder- 
ing rapidity, to a confidential gravity. “You were 
poor then, mein Herr.” 

“ I have always been poor, Fraulein, until now.” 

But Marguerite’s mind had flown to other things. 
She was looking at him again with a frown of con- 
centration. 


230 


LEARNING IT BY HEART 





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A RLINFORCEMENT 


“I am beginning to remember your name,” she 
said. “Is it not strange how a name comes back 
with a face ? And I had quite forgotten both your 
face and your name, Herr — Herr — Von Holz — ” 
she broke off, and stepped back from him — “ Von 
Holzen,” she said, slowly. “ Then you are the Mal- 
gamite man ?” 

“ Yes, Fraulein,” he answered, with his grave smile, 
“I am the Malgamite man.” 

Marguerite looked at him with a sort of wonder, 
for she knew enough of the Malgamite scheme to 
realize that this was a man who ruled all that came 
near him, against whom her own father, and Tony 
Cornish, and Major White, and Mrs. Vansittart had 
been able to do nothing — who in the face of all op- 
position continued calmly to make Malgamite, and 
sell it daily to the world at a preposterous profit, 
and at the cost only of men’s lives. 

“And you, Fraulein, are the daughter of Mr. 
Wade the banker ?” 

“Yes,” she answered, feeling suddenly that she was 
a school-girl again, standing before her master. 

“ And why are you in the Hague?” 

“Oh,” replied Marguerite, hesitating for perhaps 
the first time in her life, “to enlarge our minds, 
mein Herr.” 

She was looking at the paper he held in his 
hand, and he saw the direction of her glance. In re- 
sponse, he laughed quietly and held it out towards 
her. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ you have guessed right. It is 
the Vorschrift, the prescription for the manufacture 
of Malgamite.” 

She took the paper and turned it over curiously. 

231 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Then, with her usual audacity, she opened it and 
began to read. 

“Ah,” she said, “ it is in Hebrew.” 

Von Holzen nodded his head, and held out his 
hand for the paper, which she gave to him. She was 
not afraid of the man — but she was very near to 
fear. 

“And I am sitting here quietly under the trees, 
Fraulein,” he said, “learning it by heart.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A BRIGHT AND SHINING LIGHT 

“ Un homme sdrieux est celui qui se croit regarde ” 

When Lord Ferriby decided to accede to Roden’s 
earnest desire that he should go to the Hague, he 
was conscious of conferring a distinct favor upon 
the Low Countries. 

“ It is not a place one would choose to go to at 
this time of the year,” he said to a friend at the 
club. “ In the winter it is different ; for the season 
there is in the winter, as in many Continental cap- 
itals.” 

One of the numerous advantages attached to an 
hereditary title is the certainty that a hearer of 
some sort or another will always be forthcoming. 
A commoner finds himself snubbed or quietly aban- 
doned so soon as his reputation for the utterance 
of egoisms and platitudes is sufficiently established, 
but there are always plenty of people ready and will- 
ing to be bored by a lord. A high-class club is, more- 
over, a very mushroom-bed of bores, where elderly 
gentlemen, who have travelled quite a distance down 
the road of life without finding out that it is border- 
ed on either side by a series of small events not 
worth commenting upon, meet to discuss triviali- 
ties. 


233 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ Truth is," said his lordship to one of these per- 
sons, “this Malgamite scheme is one of the largest 
charities that I have conducted, and carries with it 
certain responsibilities — yes, certain responsibili- 
ties.” 

And he assumed a grave air of importance al- 
most amounting to worry. For Lord Ferriby did 
not know that a worried look is an almost certain 
indication of a small mind. Nor had he observed 
that those who bear the greatest responsibilities, and 
have proved themselves worthy of the burden, are 
precisely they who show the serenest face to the 
world. 

It must not, however, be imagined that Lord Fer- 
riby was in reality at all uneasy respecting the Mal- 
gamite scheme. Here again he enjoyed one of the 
advantages of having been preceded by a grand- 
father able and willing to serve his party without 
too minute a scruple. For if the king can do no 
wrong, the nobility may surely claim a certain im- 
munity from criticism, and those who have allow- 
ance made to them must inevitably learn to make 
allowance for themselves. Lord Ferriby was, in a 
word, too self-satisfied to harbor any doubts respect- 
ing his own conduct. Self-satisfaction is, of course, 
indolence in disguise. 

It was easy enough for Lord Ferriby to persuade 
himself that Cornish was wrong and Roden in the 
right ; especially when Roden, in the most gentle- 
manly manner possible, paid a check, not to Lord 
Ferriby direct, but to his bankers, in what he grace- 
fully termed the form of a bonus upon the heavy 
subscription originally advanced by his lordship. 
There are many people in the world who will accept 

234 


A BRIGHT AND SHINING LIGHT 


money so long as their delicate susceptibilities are 
not offended by an actual sight of the check. 

“Anthony Cornish,” said Lord Ferriby, pulling 
down his waistcoat, “ like many men who have had 
neither training nor experience, does not quite un- 
derstand the ethics of commerce.” 

His lordship, like others, seemed to understand 
these to mean that a man may take anything that 
his neighbor is fool enough to part with. 

Joan was willing enough to accompany her father, 
because in the great march of social progress she 
had passed on from charity to sanitation, and was 
convinced that the mortality among the Malga- 
miters, which had been more than hinted at in the 
Ferriby family circle, was entirely due to the neg- 
ligence of the victims in not using an old disinfec- 
tant served up in artistic flagons under a new name. 
Permanganate of potash under another name will 
not only smell as sweet, but will perform greater 
sanitary wonders, because the world places faith in 
a new name, and faith is still the greatest healer of 
human ills. 

Joan therefore proposed to carry to the Hague 
the glad tidings of the sanitary millennium, fully 
convinced that this had come to a suffering world 
under the name of “ Nuxine,” in small bottles, at 
the price of one shilling and a penny halfpenny. 
The penny halfpenny, no doubt, represented the 
cost of bottle and drug and the small blue ribbon 
securing the stopper, while the shilling went very 
properly into the manufacturer’s pocket. It was at 
this time the fashion in Joan’s world to smell of 
“ Nuxine,” which could also be had in the sweetest 
little blue tabloids, to place in the wardrobe and 
235 


RODEN’S CORNER 


among one’s clean clothes. Joan had given Major 
White a box of these tabloids, which gift had been 
accepted with becoming gravity. Indeed, the Major 
seemed never to tire of hearing Joan’s exordiums, 
or of watching her pretty, earnest face as she urged 
him to use “ Nuxine ” in its various forms, and it 
was only when he heard that cigar-holders made of 
“ Nuxine ” absorbed all the deleterious properties 
of tobacco that his stout heart failed him. 

“Yes,” he pleaded, “but a fellow must draw the 
line at a sky-blue cigar-holder, you know.” 

And Joan had to content herself with the promise 
that he would use none other than “Nuxine” den- 
tifrice. 

Lord Ferriby and Joan, therefore, set out to the 
Hague, his lordship in the full conviction (enjoyed 
by so many useless persons) that his presence was 
in itself of beneficial effect upon the course of events, 
and Joan with her “ Nuxine ” and, in a minor degree 
now, her “ Malgamiters ” and her “ Haberdashers’ 
Assistants.” Lady Ferriby preferred to remain at 
Cambridge Terrace, chiefly because it was cheaper, 
and also because the cook required a holiday, and, 
with a kitchen-maid only, she could indulge in her 
greatest pleasure — a useless economy. The cook re- 
fused to starve her fellow-servants, while the kitchen- 
maid, mindful of a written character in the future, 
did as her ladyship bade her — hashing and mincing 
in a manner quite irreconcilable with forty pounds 
a year and beer-money. 

Major White met the travellers at the Hague sta- 
tion, and Joan, who had had some trouble with her 
father during the simple journey, was conscious for 
the first time of a sense of orderliness and rest in 
236 



“MAJOR WHITE MET THE TRAVELLERS AT THE HAGUE STATION 





A BRIGHT AND SHINING LIGHT 


the presence of the stout soldier who seemed to walk 
heavily over difficulties when they arose. 

“ Eh — er,” began his lordship, as they walked down 
the platform, “ have you seen anything of Roden ?” 

For Lord Ferriby was too self-centred a man to 
be keenly observant, and had as yet failed to detect 
Von Holzen behind and overshadowing his partner 
in the Malgamite scheme. 

“ No — cannot say I have,” replied the Major. 

He had never discussed the Malgamite affairs with 
Lord Ferriby. Discussion was, indeed, a pastime in 
which the Major never indulged. His position in 
the matter was clearly enough defined, but he had 
no intention of explaining why it was that he ranged 
himself stolidly on Cornish’s side in the differences 
that had arisen. 

Lord Ferriby was dimly conscious of a smoulder- 
ing antagonism, but knew the Major sufficiently well 
not to fear an outbreak of hostilities. Men who will 
face opposition may be divided into two classes — the 
one taking its stand upon a conscious rectitude, the 
other half hiding with the cheap and transparent 
cunning of the ostrich. Many men, also, are in the 
fortunate condition of believing themselves to be in- 
variably right unless they are told quite plainly that 
they are wrong. And there was nobody to tell Lord 
Ferriby this. Cornish, with a sort of respect for 
the head of the family — a regard for the office irre- 
spective of its holder — was so far from wishing to 
convince his uncle of error that he voluntarily re- 
linquished certain strong points in his position rath- 
er than strike a blow that would inevitably reach 
Lord Ferriby, though directed towards Roden or 
Von Holzen. 


237 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Lord Ferriby heard, however, with some uneasi- 
ness, that the Wades were in the Hague. 

“A worthy man — a very worthy man,” he said, 
abstractedly ; for he looked upon the banker with 
that dim suspicion which js aroused in certain minds 
by uncompromising honesty. 

The travellers proceeded to the hotel, where rooms 
had been prepared for them. There were flowers in 
Joan’s room, which her maid said she had rearranged, 
so awkwardly had they been placed in the vase. 
The Wades, it appeared, were out, and had announced 
their intention of not returning to lunch. They 
were, the hotel porter thought, to take that meal at 
Mrs. Vansittart’s. 

“ I think,” said Lord Ferriby, “ that I will go down 
to the works.” 

“Yes, do,” answered White, with an expressionless 
countenance. 

“ Perhaps you will accompany me ?” suggested 
Joan’s father. 

“ No — think not. Can’t hit it off with Roden. Per- 
haps Joan would like to see the Palace in the Wood.” 

Joan thought that it was her duty to go to the 
Malgamite works, and murmured the word “ Nuxine,” 
without, however, much enthusiasm ; but White hap- 
pened to remember that it was mixing day. So Lord 
Ferriby went off alone in a hired carriage, as had 
been his intention from the first ; for White knew even 
less about the ethics of commerce than did Cornish. 

The account of affairs that awaited his lordship 
at the works was, no doubt, satisfactory enough, for 
the manufacture of Malgamite had been proceeding 
at high pressure night and day. Von Holzen had, 
as he told Marguerite, been poor all his life, and 
238 


A BRIGHT AND SHINING LIGHT 


poverty is a hard task-master. He was not going 
to be poor again. The gray carts had been passing 
up and down Park Straat more often than ever, tak- 
ing their loads to one or other of the railway sta- 
tions, and bringing, as they passed her house, a 
gleam of anger to Mrs. Vansittart’s eyes. 

“ The scoundrels !” she muttered. “ The scoun- 
drels ! Why does not Tony act?” 

But Tony Cornish, who alone knew the full ex- 
tent of Von Holzen’s determination not to be frus- 
trated, could not act — for Dorothy’s sake. 

A string of the quiet gray carts passed up Park 
Straat when the party assembled there had risen 
from the luncheon-table. Mrs. Vansittart and Mr. 
Wade were standing together at the window, which 
was large even in this city of large and spotless 
windows. Dorothy and Cornish were talking to- 
gether at the other end of the room, and Marguerite 
was supposed to be looking at a book of photographs. 

“There goes a consignment of men’s lives,” said 
Mrs. Vansittart to her companion. 

“A human life, madam,” answered the banker, 
“ like all else on earth, varies much in value.” 

For Mr. Wade belonged to that class of English- 
men which has a horror of all sentiment, and takes 
care to cloak its good actions by the assumption of 
an unworthy motive. And who shall say that this 
man of business was wrong in his statement ? Which 
of us has not a few friends and relations who can 
only have been created as a solemn warning ? 

As Mrs. Vansittart and Mr. Wade stood at the 
window, Marguerite joined them, slipping her hand 
within her father’s arm with that air of protection 
which she usually assumed towards him. She was 
239 


RODEN’S CORNER 


gay and lively, as she ever was, and Mrs. Vansittart 
glanced at her morg than dnce with a sort of envy. 
Mrs* Vansittart did not, in truth, always understand 
Marguerite or her English, which was essentially 
modern. 

They were standing and laughing at the window, 
when Marguerite suddenly drew them back. 

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Vansittart. 

“ It is Lord Ferriby,” replied Marguerite. 

And looking cautiously between the lace curtains, 
they saw the great man drive past in his hired carriage. 

“He has recently bought Park Straat,” commented 
Marguerite. And his lordship’s condescending air 
certainly seemed to suggest that the street, if not 
the whole city, belonged to him. 

Mr. Wade pointed with his thick thumb in the 
direction in which Lord Ferriby was driving. 

“Where is he going?” he asked, bluntly. 

“ To the Malgamite works,” replied Mrs. Vansit- 
tart, with significance. 

And Mr. Wade made no comment. Mrs. Vansit- 
tart spoke first. 

“ I asked Major White,” she said, “ to lunch with 
us to-day, but he was pledged, it appeared, to meet 
Lord Ferriby and his daughter, and see them in- 
stalled at their hotel.” 

“Ah!” said Mr. Wade. 

Mrs. Vansittart, who in truth seemed to find the 
banker rather heavy, allowed some moments to 
elapse before she again spoke. 

“Major White,” she then observed, “does not ac- 
company Lord Ferriby to the Malgamite works.” 

“Major White,” replied Marguerite, demurely, “ has 
other fish to fry.” 


240 


CHAPTER XXV 


CLEARING THE AIR 

“// is ns difficult to be entirely bad as it is to be entirely good ” 


Percy Roden, who had been to Utrecht and Ant- 
werp, arrived home on the evening of the day that 
saw Lord Ferriby’s advent to the Hague. Though 
the day had been fine enough, the weather broke up 
at sunset, and great clouds chased the sun towards 
the west. Then the rain came suddenly and swept 
across the plains in a slanting fury. Acold wind from 
the southeast followed hard upon the heavy clouds, 
and night came in a chaos of squall and beating rain. 
Roden was drenched in his passage from the car- 
riage to the Villa des Dunes, which, being a summer 
residence, had not been provided with a carriage- 
drive across the dunes from the road. He looked at 
his sister with tired eyes when she met him in the 
entrance-hall. He was worn and thinner than she 
had seen him in the days of his adversity, for Percy 
Roden, like his partner, had made several false starts 
upon the road to fortune before he got well away. 
Like many — like, indeed, nearly all — who have to 
try again, he had lightened himself of a scruple or so 
each time he turned back. Prosperity, however, 
seems to kill as many as adversity. Abundant wealth 
is a vexation of spirit to-day as surely as it was in 
Q 241 


RODEN’S CORNER 


the time of that wise man who, having tried it, said 
that a stranger eateth it, and it is vanity. 

“ Beastly night,” said Roden, and that was all. 
He had been to Antwerp on banking business, and 
had that sleepless look which brings a glitter to the 
eyes. This was a man handling great sums of 
money. “Von Holzen been here to-day?” he asked, 
when he had changed his clothes and they were 
seated at the dinner-table. 

“ No,” answered Dorothy, with her eyes on his 
plate. He was eating little, and drank only mineral 
water from a stone bottle. He was like an athlete 
in training, though the strain he sought to meet was 
mental and not physical. He shivered more than 
once, and glanced sharply at the door when the maid 
happened to leave it open. 

When Dorothy went to the drawing-room she 
lighted the fire, which was ready laid, and of wood. 
Although it was nearly midsummer, the air was 
chilly, and the rain beat against the thin walls of the 
house. 

“ I think it probable,” Roden had said, before she 
left the dining-room, “that Von Holzen will come in 
this evening.” 

She sat down before the fire, which burned briskly, 
and looked into it with thoughtful, clever gray eyes. 
Percy thought it probable that Von Holzen would 
come to the Villa des Dunes this evening. Would 
he come ? For Percy knew nothing of the organized 
attempt on Cornish’s life which she herself had frus- 
trated. He seemed to know nothing of the grim 
and silent antagonism that existed between the two 
men, shutting his eyes to their movements, which 
were like the movements of chess-players that the 
242 


CLEARING THE AIR 


on-looker sees but does not understand. Dorothy 
knew that Von Holzen was infinitely cleverer than 
her brother. She knew, indeed, that he was cleverer 
than most men. With the quickness of her sex she 
had long ago divined the source and basis of his 
strength. He was indifferent to women — who 
formed no part of his life, who entered in no way 
into his plans or ambitions. As a woman, she 
should, theoretically, have disliked and despised him 
for this. As a matter of fact, this characteristic 
commanded her respect. 

She knew that her brother was not in Von Holzen’s 
confidence. It was probable that no man on earth 
had ever come within measurable distance of that. 
He would, in all likelihood, hear nothing of the at- 
tempt to kill Cornish, and Cornish himself would be 
the last to mention it. For she knew that her lover 
was a match for Von Holzen, and more than a match. 
She had never doubted that. It was a part of her 
creed. A woman never really loves a man until she 
has made him the object of a creed. And it is only 
the man himself who can — and in the long-run 
usually does — make it impossible for her to adhere 
to her belief. 

She was still sitting and thinking over the fire 
when her brother came into the room. 

“Ah !” he said, at the sight of the fire, and came 
forward, holding out his hands to the blaze. He 
looked down at his sister with glittering and un- 
steady eyes. He was in a dangerous humor — a hu- 
mor for explanations and admissions — to which weak 
natures sometimes give way. And, looking at the 
matter practically and calmly, explanations and ad- 
missions are better left — to the hereafter. But Von 

243 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Holzen saved him by ringing the front-door bell at 
that moment. 

The professor came into the room a minute later. 
He stood in the doorway and bowed in the stiff Ger- 
man way to Dorothy. With Roden he exchanged a 
curt nod. His hair was glued to his temples by the 
rain, which gleamed on his face. “ It is an abomi- 
nable night,” he said, coming forward. “ Ach, Frau- 
lein, please do not leave us — ‘and the fire,” he added; 
for Dorothy had risen. “ I merely came to make 
sure that he had arrived safely home.” He took the 
chair offered to him by Roden, and sat on it with- 
out bringing it forward. He had but little of that 
self-assurance which is so highly cultivated to-day 
as to be almost offensive. “There are, of course, 
matters of business,” he said, “which can wait till 
to-morrow. To-night you are tired.” He looked 
at Roden as a doctor might look at a patient. “ Is 
it not so, Fraulein ?” he asked, turning to Dorothy. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Except one or two matters, which we may dis^ 
cuss now.” 

Dorothy turned and glanced at him. He was look- 
ing at her, and their eyes met for a moment. He 
seemed to see something in her face that made him 
thoughtful, for he remained silent for some time, 
while he wiped the rain from his face with his pocket- 
handkerchief. It was a pale, determined face, which 
could hardly fail to impress those with whom he 
came in contact as the face of a strong man. 

“ Lord Ferriby has been at the works to-day,” he 
said ; and then, with a gesture of the hands and a 
shrug, he described Lord Ferriby as a nonentity. 
“ He went through the works, and looked over your 
244 


CLEARING THE AIR 


books. I wrote out a sort of certificate of his satis- 
faction with both, and — he signed it.” 

Roden was leaning forward over the fire with a 
cigarette between his lips. He nodded shortly. 
“Good,” he said. 

“Yesterday,” continued Von Holzen, “I met an 
old acquaintance — a Miss Wade— one of the young 
ladies of a Pensionnat at Dresden, in which I taught 
at one time. She is a daughter of the banker Wade, 
and told me, reluctantly, that she is at the Hague 
with her father — a friend of Cornish’s. This morn- 
ing I took a walk on the sands at Scheveningen ; 
there was a large fat man, among others, bathing at 
the northern bathing-station. It was Major White. 
It is a regular gathering of the clans. I saw a Ger- 
man paper-maker — a big man in the trade — on the 
Kursaal terrace this morning. It may be a mere 
chance, and it may not.” As he spoke he had with- 
drawn from his pocket a folded paper, which he was 
fingering thoughtfully. Dorothy, who knew that 
she had by her looks unwittingly warned him, made 
no motion to go now. He would say nothing that 
he did not deliberately intend for her ears as much 
as for her brother’s. Von Holzen opened the paper 
slowly, and looked at it as if every line of it was 
familiar. It was a sheet of ordinary foolscap cover- 
ed with minute figures and writing. “ It is the Vor- 
schrift, the — how do you say ? — prescription for the 
Malgamite, and there are several in the Hague at 
this moment who want it, and some who would not 
be too scrupulous in their methods of procuring it. 
It is for this that they are gathering — here in the 
Hague.” 

Roden turned in his leisurely way and looked over 
245 


RODEN’S CORNER 


his shoulder towards the paper. Von Holzen glanced 
at Dorothy. He had no desire to keep her in sus- 
pense — but he wished to know how much she knew. 
She looked into the fire, treating his conversation as 
directed towards her brother only. 

“ I tried for ten years in vain to get this,” contin- 
ued Von Holzen, “and at last a dying man dictated 
it to me. For years it lived in the brain of one man 
only — and he a maker of it himself. He might have 
died at any moment with that secret in his head. 
And I” — he folded the paper slowly and shrugged 
his shoulders — “ I watched him. And the last intel- 
ligible word he spoke on earth was the last word 
of this prescription. The man can have been no 
fool ; for he was a man of little education. I never 
respected him so much as I do now when I have 
learned it myself.” 

He rose and walked to the fire. 

“You permit me, Fraulein,” he said, putting the 
logs together with his foot. They burned up bright- 
ly, and he threw the paper upon them. In a mo- 
ment it was reduced to ashes. He turned slowly 
upon his heel and looked at his companions with the 
grave smile of one who had never known much 
mirth. 

“ There,” he said, touching his high forehead with 
one finger ; “ it is in the brain of one man — once 
more.” 

He returned to the chair he had just vacated. 

“And whosoever wishes to stop the manufacture 
of Malgamite will need to stop that brain,” he said, 
with a soft laugh. 

“Of course there is a risk attached to burning 
that paper,” he continued, after a pause. “ My brain 
246 


IT IS THE BRAIN OF ONE MAN — ONCE MORE' 

















































































































































































































































































































































* 











































































CLEARING THE AIR 


may go — a little clot of blood no bigger than a pin’s 
head, and the greatest brain on earth is so much 
pulp ! It may be worth some one’s while to kill me. 
It is so often worth some one’s while to kill some- 
body else, even at a considerable risk — but the cour- 
age is nearly always lacking. However, we must 
run these risks.” 

He rose from his chair with a low and rather 
pleasant laugh, glancing at the clock as he did so. 
It was evidently his intention to take his leave. 
Dorothy rose also, and they stood for a moment fac- 
ing each other. He was a few inches below her 
stature, and he looked up at her with his slow, 
thoughtful eyes. He seemed always to be making 
a diagnosis of the souls of men. 

“I know, Fraulein,” he said, “that you are one of 
those who dislike me and seek to do me harm. I 
am sorry. It is long since I discarded a youthful 
belief that it was possible to get on in life without 
arousing ill feeling. Believe me, it is impossible 
even to hold one’s own in this world without making 
enemies. There are two sides to every question, 
Fraulein — remember that.” 

He brought his heels together, bowed stiffly, from 
the waist, and left the room. Percy Roden followed 
him, leaving the door open. Dorothy heard the 
rustle of his dripping waterproof as he put it on, 
the click of the door, the sound of his firm retreat- 
ing tread on the gravel. Then her brother came 
back into the room. His rather weak face was 
flushed. His eyes were unsteady. Dorothy saw 
this in a glance, and her own face hardened unre- 
sponsively. The situation was clearly enough de- 
fined in her own mind. Von Holzen had destroyed 
247 


RODEN’S CORNER 


the prescription before her on purpose. It was only 
a move in that game of life which is always extend- 
ing to a new deal, and of which women as on-lookers 
necessarily see the most. Von Holzen wished Cor- 
nish, and others concerned, to know that he had de- 
stroyed the prescription. It was a concession in 
disguise — a retrograde movement — perhaps pour 
mieux sauter. 

Percy Roden was one of those men who have a 
grudge against the world. The most hopeless ill- 
doer is he who excuses himself angrily. There are 
some who seem unconscious of their own failings, 
and for these there is hope. They may some day 
find out that it is better to be at peace with the 
world even at the cost of a little self-denial. But 
Percy Roden admitted that he was wrong, and al- 
ways had that sort of excuse which seeks to lay the 
blame upon a whole class — upon other business men, 
upon those in authority, upon women. 

“ It is excused in others, why not in me ?” — the 
last cry of the ne’er-do-well. 

He glanced angrily at Dorothy now. But he was 
always half afraid of her. 

“I wish we had never come to this place,” he 
said. 

“ Then let us go away from it,” answered Doro- 
thy, “ before it is too late.” 

Roden looked at her in surprise. Did she expect 
him to go away now from Mrs. Vansittart ? He 
knew, of course, that Dorothy and the world always 
expected too much from him. 

“Before it is too late. What do you mean?” he 
asked, still thinking of Mrs. Vansittart. 

“ Before the Malgamite scheme is exposed,” re- 
248 


CLEARING THE AIR 

plied Dorothy, bluntly. And to her surprise, he 
laughed. 

“I thought you meant something else,” he said. 
“The Malgamite scheme can look after itself. Von 
Holzen is the cleverest man I know, and he knows 
what he is doing. I thought you meant Mrs. Van- 
sittart — were thinking of her.” 

“ No, I was not thinking of Mrs. Vansittart.” 

“Not worth thinking about,” suggested Roden, 
adhering to his method of laughing for fear of be- 
ing laughed at, which is common enough in very 
young men ; but Roden should have outgrown it by 
this time. 

“ Not seriously.” 

“What do you mean, Dorothy?” 

“ That I hope you do not think seriously of ask- 
ing Mrs. Vansittart to marry you.” 

Roden gave his rather unpleasant laugh again. 

“It happens that I do,” he replied. “And it also 
happens that I know that Mrs.Vansittart never stays 
in the Hague in summer when all the houses are 
empty and everybody is away, and the place is given 
up to tourists and becomes a mere annex to Scheven- 
ingen. This year she has stayed — why, I should like 
to know.” 

And he stroked his mustache as he looked into 
the fire. He had been indulging in the vain pleasure 
of putting two and two together. A young man’s 
vanity — or, indeed, any man’s vanity — is not to be 
trusted to work out that simple addition correctly. 
Percy Roden was still in a dangerously exalted frame 
of mind. There is no intoxication so dangerous as 
that of success, and none that leaves so bitter a 
taste behind it. 


249 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ Of course,” he said, “ no girl ever thinks that her 
brother can succeed in such a case. I suppose you 
dislike Mrs. Vansittart ?” 

“ No ; I like her, and I understand her, perhaps, 
better than you do. I should like nothing better 
than that she should marry you, but — ” 

“ But what?” 

“Well, ask her,” replied Dorothy — a woman’s an- 
swer. 

“ And then ?” 

“And then let us go away from here.” 

Roden turned on her angrily. 

“Why do you keep on repeating that?” he cried. 
“ Why do you want to go away ?” 

“ Because,” replied Dorothy, as angry as himself, 
“you know as well as I do that the Malgamite 
scheme is not what it pretends to be. I suppose you 
are making a fortune and are dazzled, or else you 
are being deceived by Herr Von Holzen, or else — ” 

“ Or else — ” echoed Roden, with a pale face. “Yes 
— go on.” 

But she bit her lip and was silent. 

“ It is an open secret,” she went on, after a pause. 
“ Everybody knows that it is a disgrace, or worse — 
perhaps a crime. If you have made a fortune, be 
content with what you have made, and clear your- 
self of the whole affair.” 

“ Not I.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ Because I am going to make more. And I am 
going to marry Mrs. Vansittart. It is only a ques- 
tion of money. It always is with women. And not 
one in a hundred cares how the money is made.” 

Which of course is not true ; for no woman likes 
250 


CLEARING THE AIR 

to see her husband’s name on a biscuit or a jam- 
pot. 

“Of course,” went on Percy, in his anger, “I know 
which side you take, since you are talking of open 
secrets. At any rate, Von Holzen knows yours — if 
it is a secret — for he has hinted at it more than 
once. You think that it is I who have been de- 
ceived or who deceive myself. You are just as like- 
ly to be wrong. You place your whole faith in Cor- 
nish. You think that Cornish cannot do wrong.” 

Dorothy turned and looked at him. Her eyes were 
•steady, but the color left her face, as if she was 
afraid of what she was about to say. 

“Yes,” she said, “ I do.” 

“And without a moment’s hesitation,” went on 
Roden, hurriedly, “you would sacrifice everything 
for the sake of a man you had never seen six months 
ago ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Even your own brother ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Dorothy. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE ULTIMATUM 

' ,i Le plus grand, le plus fort, et le plus adroit surtout, est celui qui 
sait attendre." 

“ If you think that Herr Von Holzen is a philan- 
thropist, my dear,” said Marguerite Wade, senten- 
tiously, “ that is exactly where your toes turn in.” 

She addressed this remark to Joan Ferriby, whose 
eyes were certainly veiled by that cloak of charity 
which the kind-hearted are ever ready to throw over 
the sins of others. The two girls were sitting in the 
garden of the hotel, beneath the shade of tall trees, 
within the peaceful sound of the cooing doves on the 
tiled roof. Major White was sitting within ear-shot, 
looking bulky and solemn in his light tweed suit and 
felt hat. The Major had given up appearances long 
ago, but no man surpassed him in cleanliness and 
that well-groomed air which distinguishes men of his 
cloth. He was reading a newspaper, and from time 
to time glanced at his companions, more especially, 
perhaps, at Joan. 

“ Major White,” said Marguerite. 

“Yes.” 

“ Greengage, please.” 

The greengages were on a table at the Major’s 
elbow, having been placed there, at Marguerite’s 
252 


THE ULTIMATUM 


command, by the waiter who attended them at break- 
fast. White made ready to pass the dish. 

“ Fingers,” said Marguerite. “ Heave one over.” 

White selected one with an air of solemn resigna- 
tion. Marguerite caught the greengage as neatly 
as it was thrown. 

“What do you think of Herr Von Holzen?” she 
asked. 

“ To think,” replied the Major, “certain requisites 
are necessary.” 

“ Um — m.” 

. “ I do not know Herr Von Holzen, and I have noth- 
ing to think with,” he explained, gravely. 

“Well, you soon will know him, and I dare say if 
you tried you would find that you are not so stupid 
as you pretend to be. You are going down to the 
works this morning with papa and Tony Cornish. 
I know that, because papa told me.” 

The Major looked at her with his air of philo- 
sophic surprise. She held up her hand for a catch, 
and with resignation he threw her another green- 
gage. 

“ Tony is going to call for you in a carriage at ten 
o’clock, and you three old gentlemen are going to 
drive in an open barouche, with cigars, like a bean- 
feast, to the Malgamite work§.” 

“ The description is fairly accurate,” admitted 
Major White, without looking up from his paper. 

“And I imagine you are going to raise — Hail 
Columbia !” 

He looked at her severely through his glass, and 
said nothing. She nodded in a friendly and en- 
couraging manner, as if to intimate that he had her 
entire approval. 


253 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ Take my word for it,” she continued, turning to 
Joan, “ Herr Von Holzen is a shady customer. I 
know a shady customer when I see him. I never 
thought much of the Malgamite business, you know, 
but unfortunately nobody asked my opinion on the 
matter. I wonder — ” she paused, looking thought- 
fully at Major White, who presently met her glance 
with a stolid stare. “ Of course !” she said, in a final 
voice. “ I forgot. You never think. You can’t. 
Oh no !” 

“ It is so easy to misjudge people,” pleaded Joan, 
earnestly. 

“ It is much easier to see right through them, 
straight off, in the twinkling of a bedpost,” asserted 
Marguerite. “You will see, Herr Von Holzen is 
wrong and Tony is right. And Tony will smash him 
up. You will see. Tony ’’—she paused, and looked 
up at the roof where the doves were cooing — “ Tony 
knows his way about.” 

Major White rose and laid aside his paper. Mr. 
Wade was coming down the iron steps that led from 
the veranda to the garden. The banker was cut- 
ting a cigar, and wore a placid, comfortable look, as 
if he had breakfasted well. Even as regards kidneys 
and bacon in a foreign hotel, where there is a will 
there is a way, and Marguerite possessed tongues. 

“ I’ll turn this place inside out,” she had said, “ to 
get the old thing what he wants.” Then she attacked 
the waiter in fluent German. 

Marguerite noted his approach with a protecting 
eye. 

“ It’s all solid common-sense,” she said, in an un- 
dertone to Joan, referring, it would appear, to his 
bulk. 


254 


THE ULTIMATUM 


In only one respect was she misinformed as to the 
arrangements for the morning. Tony Cornish was 
not coming to the hotel to fetch Mr. Wade and 
White, but was to meet them in the shadiest of all 
thoroughfares and green canals, the Koninginne 
Gracht, where at mid-day the shadows cast by the 
great trees are so deep that daylight scarcely pene- 
trates, and the boats creep to and fro like shadows. 
This amendment had been made in view of the fact 
that Lord Ferriby was in the hotel, and was, indeed, 
at this moment partaking of a solemn breakfast in 
his private sitting-room overlooking the Toornoi- 
feld. 

His lordship did not therefore see these two solid 
pillars of the British constitution walk across the 
corner of the Korte Voorhout, cigar in lip, in a placid 
silence, begotten, perhaps, of the knowledge that, 
should an emergency arise, they were of a material 
that would arise to meet it. 

Cornish was awaiting them by the bank of the 
canal. He was watching a boat work its way slowly 
past him. It was one of the large boats built for 
traffic on the greater canals and the open waters of 
the Scheldt estuary. It was laden from end to end 
with little square boxes bearing only a number and 
a port mark in black stencil. A pleasant odor of 
sealing-wax dominated the weedy smell of the canal. 

‘‘Wherever you turn you meet the stuff,” was 
Cornish’s greeting to the two Englishmen. Major 
White, with his delicate sense of smell, sniffed the 
breeze. Mr. Wade looked at the canal-boat with a 
nod. Commercial enterprise, and, above all, com- 
mercial success, commanded his honest respect. 

They all entered the carriage awaiting them be- 
255 


RODEN’S CORNER 


neath the trees. Cornish was, as usual, quick and 
eager, a different type from his companions, who 
were not brilliant as he was, nor polished. 

They found the gates of the Malgamite works 
shut, but the door-keeper, knowing Cornish to be a 
person of authority, threw them open, and directed 
the driver to wait outside till the gentlemen should 
return. The works were quiet, and every door was 
closed. 

“ Is it mixing day ?” asked Cornish. 

“ Every day is mixing day now, mein Herr, and 
there are some who work all night as well. If the 
gentlemen will wait a moment, I will seek Herr 
Roden.” 

And he left them standing beneath the brilliant 
sun in the open space between the gate and the cot- 
tage where Von Holzen lived. In a few moments 
he returned, accompanied by Percy Roden, who 
emerged from the office in his shirt-sleeves, pen in 
hand. He shook hands with Cornish and White, 
glanced at Mr. Wade, and half bowed. He did not 
seem glad to see them. 

“We want to look at your books,” said Cornish. 
“ I suppose you will make no objection ?” 

Roden bit his mustache, and looked at the point 
of his pen. 

“You and Major White?” he suggested. 

“And this gentleman, who comes as our financial 
adviser.” 

Roden raised his eyebrows rather insolently. 

“Ah — may I ask who this gentleman is?” he 
said. 

“My name is Wade,” answered the banker, char- 
acteristically, for himself. 

256 


WE WANT TO LOOK AT YOUR HOOKS 





































THE ULTIMATUM 


Roden’s face changed, and he glanced at the great 
financier with a keen interest. 

“ I have no objection,” he said, after a moment’s 
hesitation, “ if Von Holzen will agree. I will go and 
ask him.” 

And they were left alone in the sunshine once 
more. Mr. Wade watched Roden as he walked 
towards the factory. 

“ Not the sort of man I expected,” he commented ; 
“but he has the right-shaped head — for figures. He 
is shrewd enough to know that he cannot refuse, so 
gives in with a good grace.” 

In a few minutes Von Holzen approached them, 
emerging from the factory alone. He bowed po- 
litely, but did not offer to shake hands. He had 
not seen Cornish since the evening when he had 
offered to make Malgamite before him and the ex- 
periment had taken such a grim turn. He looked 
at him now, and found his glance returned by an 
illegible smile. The- question flashed through his 
mind and showed itself on his face as to why Roden 
had made such a mistake as to introduce a man like 
this into the Malgamite scheme. 

Von Holzen invited the gentlemen into the office. 
“ It is small, but it will accommodate us,” he said, 
with a grave smile. He drew forward chairs, and 
offered one to Cornish in particular, with a grim 
deference. He seemed to have divined that their 
last meeting in this same office had been, by tacit 
understanding, kept a secret. There is for some 
men a certain satisfaction in antagonism, and a stern 
regard for a strong foe — which reached its culmina- 
tion, perhaps, in that Saxon knight who desired to 
be buried in the same chapel as his life-long foe — 
r 257 


RODEN’S CORNER 


between him, indeed, and the door — so that at the 
resurrection day they should not miss each other. 

Von Holzen seemed to have somewhat of this feel- 
ing for Cornish. He offered him the best seat at 
the table. Roden was taking his books from a safe 
— huge ledgers bound in green pigskin, slim cash- 
books, cloth -bound journals. He named them as 
he laid them on the table before Mr. Wade. Major 
White looked at the great tomes with solemn and 
silent respect. Mr. Wade was already fingering his 
gold pencil-case. He eyed the closed books with an 
anticipatory gleam of pleasure in his face — as a com- 
mander may eye the arrayed squadrons of the foe. 

“It is, of course, understood that this audit is 
strictly in confidence,” said Von Holzen. “ For your 
own satisfaction, and not in any sense for publica- 
tion. It is a trade secret.” 

“ Of course,” answered Cornish, to whom the ques- 
tion had been addressed. 

“ We trust to the honor of these gentlemen.” 

Cornish looked up and met the speaker’s grave 
eyes. “ Yes,” he said. 

Roden, having emptied the large safe, leaned his 
shoulder against the iron mantel-piece and looked 
down at those seated at the table — especially at Mr. 
Wade. His hands were in his pockets ; his face wore 
a careless smile. He had not resumed his coat, and 
the cleanliness of the books testified to the fact that 
he always worked in shirt-sleeves. It was a trick of 
the trade, which exonerated him from the necessity 
of apologizing. 

Mr. Wade took the great ledgers, opened them, 
fluttered the pages with his fingers, and set them 
aside one after the other. Then Roden seemed to 
258 


THE ULTIMATUM 


recollect something. He went to a drawer and took 
from it a packet of neatly folded papers, held togeth- 
er by elastic rings. The top one he unfolded and 
laid on the table before Mr. Wade. 

“ Trial balance-sheet of 31st of March,” he said. 

Mr. Wade glanced up and down the closely writ- 
ten columns, which were like copper-plate — an as- 
tounding mass of figures. The additions in the final 
column ran to six figures. The banker folded the 
paper and laid it aside. Then he turned to the slim 
cash-books, which he glanced at casually. The jour- 
nals he set aside without opening. He handled the 
books with a sort of skill, showing that he knew 
how to lift them with the least exertion, how to open 
them and close them and turn their stiff pages. The 
enormous mass of figures did not seem to appall 
him ; the maze was straight enough beneath such 
skilful eyes. Finally he turned to a small locked 
ledger, of which the key was attached to Roden’s 
watch - chain, who came forward and unlocked the 
book. Mr. Wade turned to the index at the begin- 
ning of the volume, found a certain account, and 
opened the book there. At the sight of the figures 
he raised his eyebrows and glanced up at Roden. 

“Whew !” he exclaimed, beneath his breath. He 
had arrived at his destination — had torn the heart 
out of these great books. All in the room were 
watching his placid, shrewd old face. He studied 
the books for some time, and then took a sheet of 
blank paper from a number of such attached by a 
string to a corner of the table. He reflected for some 
minutes, pushing the movable part of his gold pen- 
cil in and out pensively as he did so. Then he wrote 
a number of figures on the sheet of paper and hand- 
259 


RODEN’S CORNER 


ed it to Cornish. He closed the locked ledger with 
a snap. The audit of the Malgamite books was over. 

“It is a wonderful piece of single-handed book- 
keeping,” he said to Roden. 

Cornish was studying the paper set before him by 
the banker. The proceedings seemed to have been 
prearranged, for no word was exchanged. There was 
no consultation on either side. Finally Cornish fold- 
ed the paper and tore it into a hundred pieces, in 
scrupulous adherence to Von Holzen’s conditions. 
Mr. Wade was sitting back in his chair, thoughtfully 
amusing himself with his gold pencil-case. Cornish 
looked at him for a moment, and then spoke, ad- 
dressing Von ‘Holzen. 

“We came here to make a final proposal to you,” 
he said ; “ to place before you, in fact, our ultima- 
tum. We do not pretend to conceal from you the 
fact that we are anxious to avoid all publicity, all 
scandal. But if you drive us to it we will unhesi- 
tatingly face both in order to close these works. We 
do not want the Malgamite scheme to be dragged 
as a charity in the mud, because it will inevitably 
drag other charities with it. There are certain 
names connected with the scheme which we would 
prefer, moreover, to keep from the clutches of the 
cheaper democratic newspapers. We know the weak- 
ness of our position.” 

“ And we know the strength of ours,” put in Von 
Holzen, quietly. 

11 Yes. We recognize that also. You have hitherto 
slipped in between international laws, and between 
the laws of men. Legally we should have difficulty 
in getting at you, but it can be done. Financial- 
ly — ” He paused and looked at Mr. Wade. 

260 


THE ULTIMATUM 


“ Financially,” said the banker, without lifting his 
eyes from his pencil-case, “ we shall in the long-run 
inevitably crush you — though the books are all 
right.” 

Roden smiled, with his long white fingers at his 
mustache. 

“ From the figures supplied to me by Mr. Wade,” 
continued Cornish, “ I see that there is an enormous 
profit lying idle — so large a profit that even between 
ourselves it is better not mentioned. There are, or 
there were yesterday, two hundred and ninety-two 
Malgamite-makers in active work.” 

Von Holzen made an involuntary movement, and 
Cornish looked at him over the pile of books. 

“Oh,” he said, “I know that. And I know the 
number of deaths. Perhaps you have not kept 
count, but I have. From the figures supplied by 
Mr. Wade, I see that we have sufficient to pension 
off these two hundred and ninety - two men and 
their families — giving each man one hundred and 
twenty pounds a year. We can also make provis- 
ion for the widows and orphans out of the sum I 
propose to withdraw from the profits. There will 
then be left a sum representing two large fortunes 
— of, say, between five and six thousand a year each. 
Will you and Mr. Roden accept this sum, dividing 
it as you think fit, and hand over the works to me ? 
We ask you to take it — no questions asked — and 
go.” 

“ And Lord Ferriby ?” suggested Von Holzen. 

Major White made a sudden movement, but Cor- 
nish laid his hand quickly upon the soldier’s arm. 

“ I will manage Lord Ferriby. What is your an- 
swer ?” 

261 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ No,” replied Von Holzen, instantly, as if he had 
long known what the ultimatum would be. Cornish 
turned interrogatively to Roden. His eyes urged 
Roden to accept. 

“ No,” was the reply. 

Mr. Wade took out his large gold watch and look- 
ed at it. 

“ Then there is no need,” he said, composedly, “ to 
detain these gentlemen any longer.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


COMMERCE 

“ The world will not believe a man repents , 

And this wise world of ours is mainly right ” 

“ Then you are of opinion, my dear White, that 
one cannot well refuse to meet these — er — per- 
sons ?” 

“ Not,” replied Major White to Lord Ferriby, whose 
hand rested on his stout arm as they walked with 
dignity in the shade of the trees that border the 
Vyver — that quaint old fish-pond of the Hague — 
“not without running the risk of being called a 
damned swindler.” 

For the Major was a lamentably plain - spoken 
man, who said but little, and said that little strong. 
Lord Ferriby’s affectionate grasp of the soldier’s 
arm relaxed imperceptibly. One must, he reflected, 
be prepared to meet unpleasantness in the good 
cause of charity — but there are words hardly appli- 
cable to the peerage, and Major White had made use 
of one of these. 

“ Public opinion,” observed the Major, after some 
minutes of deep thought, “ is a difficult thing to deal 
with — ’cos you cannot thump the public.” 

“ It is notably hard,” said his lordship, firing off 
one of his pet platform platitudes, “to induce the 
263 


RODEN’S CORNER 


public to form a correct estimate, or what one takes 
to be a correct estimate.” 

“ Especially of one’s self,” added the Major, look- 
ing across the water towards the Binnenhof in his 
vacant way. 

Then they turned and walked back again beneath 
the heavy shade of the trees. The conversation, 
and indeed this dignified promenade on the Vyver- 
berg, had been brought about by a letter which his 
lordship had received that same morning inviting 
him to attend a meeting of paper-makers and others 
interested in the Malgamite trade to consider the 
position of the Malgamite charity, and the advisa- 
bility of taking legal proceedings to close the works 
on the dunes at Scheveningen. The meeting was 
to be held at the Hotel des Indes, at three in the after- 
noon, and the conveners hinted pretty plainly that 
the proceedings would be of a decisive nature. The 
letter left Lord Ferriby with a vague feeling of dis- 
comfort. His position was somewhat isolated. A 
coldness had for some time been in existence be- 
tween himself and his nephew, Tony Cornish. Of Mr. 
Wade, Lord Ferriby was slightly distrustful. 

“ These commercial men,” he often said, “ are apt 
to hold such narrow views.” 

And, indeed, to steer a straight course through 
life, one must not look to one side or the other. 

There remained Major White, of whom Lord Fer- 
riby had thought more highly since Fortune had 
called this plain soldier to take a seat among the 
gods of the British public. For no man is proof 
against the satisfaction of being able to call a cele- 
brated person by his Christian name. The Major 
had long admired Joan, in his stupid way, from, as 
264 


COMMERCE 


one might say, the other side of the room. But nei- 
ther Lord nor Lady Ferriby had encouraged this 
silent suit. Joan was theoretically one of those of 
whom it is said that “ she might marry anybody,” 
and who, as the keen observer may see for himself, 
often finish by failing to marry at all. She was 
pretty and popular, and had, moreover, the entree 
to the best houses. White had been useful to Lord 
Ferriby ever since the inauguration of the Malga- 
mite scheme. He was not uncomfortably clever, 
like Tony Cornish. He was an excellent buffer at 
jarring periods. Since the arrival of Joan and her 
father at the Hague, the Major had been almost a 
necessity in their daily life ; and now, quite sudden- 
ly, Lord Ferriby found that this was the only per- 
son to whom he could turn for advice or support. 

“ One cannot suppose,” he said, in the full convic- 
tion that words will meet any emergency — “one 
cannot suppose that Von Holzen will act in direct 
opposition to the voice of the majority.” 

“Von Holzen,” replied the Major, “plays a deuced 
good game.” 

After luncheon they walked across the Toornoi- 
feld to the Hotel des Indes, and there, in a small 
salon, found a. number of gentlemen seated round 
a table. Mr. Wade was conspicuous by his absence. 
They had, indeed, left him in the hotel garden, sit- 
ting at the consumption of an excellent cigar. 

“Join the jocund dance?” the Major had inquired, 
with a jerk of the head towards the Hotel des Indes. 
But Mr. Wade was going for a drive with Mar- 
guerite. 

Tony Cornish was, however, seated at the table, 
and the Major recognized two paper-makers whom 


RODEN’S CORNER 


he had seen before. One was an aggressive, red- 
headed man, of square shoulders and a dogged ap- 
pearance, who had “ radical ” written all over him. 
The other was a mild-mannered person, with a thin, 
ash-colored mustache. The Major nodded affably. 
He distinctly remembered offering to fight these two 
gentlemen either together or one after the other on 
the landing of the little Malgamite office in West- 
minster. And there was a faint twinkle behind the 
Major’s eye-glass as he saluted them. 

“ Good - morning, Thompson,” he said. “ How do, 
Hewlett ?” For he never forgot a face or a name. 

“Ahm thinking — ” Mr. MacHewlett was observ- 
ing, but his thoughts died a natural death at the 
sight of a real lord, and he rose and bowed. Mr. 
Thompson remained seated, and made that posture 
as aggressive and obvious as possible. The remain- 
der of the company were of varied nationality and 
appearance, while one — a Frenchman of keen dark 
eyes and a trim beard — seemed by tacit understand- 
ing to be the acknowledged leader. Even the push- 
ing Mr. Thompson silently deferred to him by a gest- 
ure that served at once to introduce Lord Ferriby 
and invite the Frenchman to up and smite him. 

Lord Ferriby took the seat that had been left va- 
cant for him at the head of the table. He looked 
round upon faces not too friendly. 

“ We were saying, my lord,” said the Frenchman, 
in perfect English, and with that graceful tact which 
belongs to France alone, “ that we have all been the 
victims of an unfortunate chain of misunderstand- 
ings. Had the organizers of this great charity con- 
sulted a few paper-makers before inaugurating the 
works at Scheveningen, much unpleasantness might 
266 


t 


COMMERCE 


have been averted, many lives might, alas ! have 
been spared. But — well — such mundane persons as 
ourselves were probably unknown to you and un- 
thought of ; the milk is spilled — is it not so ? Let 
us rather think of the future.” 

Lord Ferriby bowed graciously, and Mr. Thomp- 
son moved impatiently. The suave method had no 
attractions for him. 

“Ahm thinking,” began Mr. MacHewlett, in his 
most plaintive voice, and commanded so sudden and 
universal an attention as to be obviously disconcert- 
ed, “ his lordship ’ll need plainer speech than that,” 
he muttered, hastily, and subsided, with an uneasy 
glance in the direction of that man of action, Major 
White. 

“One misunderstanding has, however, been hap- 
pily dispelled,” said the Frenchman, “ by our friend 
— if monsieur will permit the word — our friend Mr. 
Cornish. From this gentleman we have learned that 
the executive of the Malgamite Charity are not by 
any means in harmony with the executive of the 
Malgamite works at Scheveningen ; that, indeed, the 
Charity repudiates the action of its servants in manu- 
facturing Malgamite by a dangerous process tacitly 
and humanely set aside by makers up to this time ; 
that the administrators of the fund are no party to- 
the ‘ corner ’ which has been established in the prod- 
uct, do not desire to secure a monopoly, and disap- 
prove of the sale of Malgamite at a price which has 
already closed one or two of the smaller mills, and 
is paralyzing the paper trade of the world.” 

The speaker finished with a little bow towards 
Cornish, and resumed his seat. All were watching 
Lord Ferriby’s face, except Major White, who ex- 
267 


f 


RODEN’S CORNER 


amined a quill pen with short-sighted absorption. 
Lord Ferriby looked across the table at Cornish. 

“ Lord Ferriby,” said Cornish, without rising from 
his seat, and meeting his uncle’s glance steadily, 
“ will now no doubt confirm all that Monsieur Creil 
has said.” 

Lord Ferriby had, in truth, come to the meeting 
with no such intention. He had, with all his vast 
experience, no knowledge of a purely commercial 
assembly such as this. His public had hitherto been 
a drawing-room public. He was accustomed to a 
flower - decked platform, from which to deliver his 
flowing periods to the emotional of both sexes. There 
were no flowers in this room at the Hotel des Indes, 
and the men before him were not of the emotional 
school. They were, on the contrary, plain, hard- 
headed men of business, who had come from differ- 
ent parts of the world at Cornish’s bidding to meet 
a crisis in a plain, hard-headed way. They had only 
thoughts of their balance-sheets, and not of the fact 
that they held in the hollow of their hands the lives 
of hundreds, nay, of thousands, of men, women, and 
children. Monsieur Creil alone, the keen-eyed French- 
man, had absolute control of over three thousand 
employes — married men with children — but he did 
not think of mentioning the fact. And it is a weight 
to carry about with one — to go to sleep with and to 
awake with in the morning — the charge of, say, nine 
thousand human lives. 

For a few moments Lord Ferriby was silent. Cor- 
nish watched him across the table. He knew that 
his uncle was no fool, although his wisdom amount- 
ed to little more than the wisdom of the worldly. 
Would Lord Ferriby recognize the situation in time? 

268 


COMMERCE 


There was a wavering look in the great man’s eye 
that made his nephew suddenly anxious. Then Lord 
Ferriby rose slowly, to make the shortest speech 
that he ever made in his life. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, “ I beg to confirm what has 
just been said.” 

As he sat down again Cornish gave a sharp sigh 
of relief. In a moment Mr. Thompson was on his 
feet, his red face alight with democratic anger. 

“ This won’t do,” he cried. “ Let’s have done with 
palavering and talk. Let’s get to plain speak- 
ing.” 

And it was not Lord Ferriby, but Tony Cornish, 
who rose to meet the attack. 

“If you will sit down,” he said, “and keep your 
temper, you shall have plain speaking, and we can 
get to business. But if you do neither, I shall turn 
you out of the room.” 

“You ?” 

“Yes,” answered Tony. 

And something which Mr. Thompson did not un- 
derstand made him resume his seat in silence. The 
Frenchman smiled, and took up his speech where he 
had left it. 

“ Mr. Cornish,” he said, “ speaks with authority. 
We are, gentlemen, in the hands of Mr. Cornish, and 
in good hands. He has this matter at the tips of his 
fingers. He has devoted himself to it for many 
months past, at considerable risk, as I suspect, 
to his own safety. We and the thousands of em- 
ployes whom we represent cannot do better than 
intrust the situation to him and give him a free 
hand. For once, capital and labor have a common 
interest — ” 


269 


RODEN’S CORNER 


He was again interrupted by Mr. Thompson, who 
spoke more quietly now. 

“ It seems to me,” he said, “ that we may well con- 
sider the past for a few minutes before passing on 
to the future. There’s more than a million pounds’ 
profit, at the lowest reckoning, on the last few 
months’ manufacture. Question is, where is that 
profit ? Is this a charity, or is it not ? Mr. Cornish 
is all very well in his way. But we’re not fools. 
We’re men of business, and as such can only pre- 
sume that Mr. Cornish, like the rest of ’em, has had 
his share. Question is, where are the profits ?” 

Major White rose slowly. He was seated beside 
Mr. Thompson, and, standing up, towered above him. 
He looked down at the irate red face with a calm 
and wondering eye. 

“ Question is,” he said, gravely, “where the deuce 
you will be in a few minutes if you don’t sit down 
and hold your tongue.” 

Whereupon Mr. Thompson once more resumed his 
seat. He had the satisfaction, however, of perceiv- 
ing that his shaft had reached its mark ; for Lord 
Ferriby looked disconcerted and angry. The chair- 
man of many charities looked, moreover, a little 
puzzled, as if the situation was beyund his com- 
prehension. The Frenchman’s pleasant voice again 
broke in, soothingly and yet authoritatively. 

“ Mr. Cornish and a certain number of us have, 
for some time, been in correspondence,” he said. 
“ It is unnecessary for me to suggest to my present 
hearers that in dealing with a large industry — -in 
handling, as it were, the lives of a number of per- 
sons — it is impossible to proceed too cautiously. 
One must look as far ahead as human foresight may 
270 


COMMERCE 


perceive — one must give grave and serious thought 
to every possible outcome of action or inaction. 
Gentlemen, we have done our bes.t. We are now in 
a position to say to the administrators of the Mal- 
gamite Fund, close your works, and we will do the 
rest. And this means that we will provide for the 
survivors of this great commercial catastrophe, that 
we will care for the widows and children of the vic- 
tims, that we shall supply ourselves with Malgamite 
of our own manufacture, produced only by a process 
which is known to be harmless, that we shall make it 
impossible that such a monopoly may again be de- 
clared. We have, so far as lies in our power, provided 
for every emergency. We have approached the two 
men who, from their retreat on the dunes of Sche- 
veningen, have swayed one of the large industries 
of the world. We have offered them a fortune. We 
have tried threats and money, but we have failed 
to close the Malgamite works. We have but one 
alternative, and that is — war. We are prepared in 
every way. We can to-morrow take over the manu- 
facture of Malgamite for the whole world — but we 
must have the works on the dunes at Scheveningen. 
We must have the absolute control of the Malga- 
mite Fund and of the works. We propose, gentle- 
men, to seize this control, and to invest the supreme 
command in the one man who is capable of exercis- 
ing it — Mr. Anthony Cornish.” 

The Frenchman sat down, looked across the table, 
and shrugged his shoulders impatiently ; for the 
irrepressible Thompson was already on his feet. It 
must be remembered that Mr. Thompson worked on 
commission, and had been hard hit. 

“ Then,” he cried, pointing a shaking forefinger 
271 


RODEN’S CORNER 


into Lord Ferriby’s face, “ that man has no business 
to be sitting there. We’re honest here — if we’re 
nothing else. We all know your history, my fine 
gentleman : we know that you cannot wipe out the 
past, so you’re trying to whitewash it over with good 
works. That’s an old trick, and it won’t go down 
here. Do you think we don’t see through you and 
your palavering speeches? Why have you refused 
to take action against Roden and Von Holzen ? Be- 
cause they’ve paid you. Look at him, gentlemen ! 
He has taken money from those men at Scheven- 
ingen — blood-money. He has had his share. I pro- 
pose that Lord Ferriby explain his position.” 

Mr. Thompson banged his fist on the table, and at 
the same moment sat down with extreme precipita- 
tion, urged thereto by Major White’s hand on his 
collar. 

“ This is not a vestry meeting,” said the Major. 

Lord Ferriby had risen to his feet. 

“My position, gentlemen,” he began, and then 
faltered, with his hand at his watch - chain. “ My 
position — ” He stopped with a gulp. His face was 
the color of ashes. He turned in a dazed way tow- 
ards his nephew ; for at the beginning and the end 
of life blood is thicker than water. 

“Anthony,” said his lordship, and sat heavily down. 
All rose to their feet in confusion. Major White 
seemed somehow to be quicker than the rest, and 
caught Lord Ferriby in his arms — but Lord Ferriby 
was dead. 


ANTHONY !’ SAID HIS LORDSHIP, AND SANK HEAVILY DOWN 





CHAPTER XXVIII 


DE MORTUIS 

“ Some man holdeth his tongue because he hath not to answer, and 
some keepeth silence knowing his time ” 

Those who live for themselves alone must at least 
have the comfortable thought that when they die 
the world will soon console itself. For it has been de- 
creed that he who takes no heed of others will him- 
self be taken no heed of. We soon learn to do with- 
out those who are indifferent to us and useless to us. 
Lord Ferriby had so long and so carefully studied 
the culte of self that even those nearest to him had 
ceased to give him any thought, knowing that in 
his own he was in excellent hands — that he would 
always ask for what he wanted. It was Lord Fer- 
riby’s business to make the discovery (which all self- 
ish people must sooner or later achieve) that the 
best things in this world are precisely those which 
may not be given on demand, and for which, indeed, 
one may in no wise ask. 

When Major White and Cornish were left alone 
in the private salon of the Hotel des Indes — when 
the doctor had come and gone, when the blinds had 
been decently lowered and the great man silently 
laid upon the sofa — they looked at each other with- 
out speaking. The grimmest silence is surely that 
s 273 


RODEN’S CORNER 


which arises from the thought that of the dead one 
may only say what is good. 

“ Would you like me,” said Cornish, “ to go across 
and tell Joan ?” 

And Major White, whose god was discipline, re- 
plied : 

“ She’s your cousin. It is for you to say.” 

“ I shall be glad if you will go,” said Cornish, “and 
leave me to make the other arrangements. Take 
her home to-morrow, or to-night if she wants to, and 
leave us — me — to follow.” 

So Major White quitted the Hotel des Indes, and 
walked slowly down the length of the Toornoifeld, 
leaving Cornish alone with Lord Ferriby, whose death 
made his nephew a richer man. 

The Wades had gone out for a drive in the Wood. 
Major White knew that he would find Joan alone at 
the hotel. Bad news has a strange trick of clearing 
the way before it. The Major went to the salon on 
the ground-floor overlooking the corner of the Vyver- 
berg. Joan was writing a letter at the window. 

“Ah !” she said, turning, pen in hand. “You are 
soon back. Have you quarrelled ?” 

White went stolidly across the room towards her. 
There was a chair by the writing-table, and here he 
sat down. Joan was looking uneasily into his face. 
Perhaps she saw more in that immovable counte- 
nance than the world was pleased to perceive. 

“ Your father was taken suddenly ill,” he said, 
“ during the meeting.” 

Joan half rose from her chair, but the Major laid 
his protecting hand over hers. It was a large, quiet 
hand — like himself, somewhat suggestive of a buffer. 
And it may, after all, be no mean role to act as a 
274 


DE MORTUIS 

buffer between one woman and the world all one’s 
life. 

“You can do nothing,” said White. “Tony is with 
him.” 

Joan looked into his face in speechless inquiry. 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ your father is dead.” 

Then he sat there in a silence which may have 
been intensely stupid or very wise. For silence is 
usually cleverer than speech, and always more in- 
teresting. Joan was dry-eyed. Well may the chil- 
dren of the selfish arise and bless their parents for 
(albeit unwittingly) alleviating one of the necessary 
sorrows of life ! 

After a silence Major White told Joan how the 
calamity had occurred, in a curt, military way, as of 
one who had rubbed shoulders with death before, 
who had gone out, moreover, to meet him with a 
quiet mind, and had told others of the dealings of 
the destroyer. For Major White was deemed a lucky 
man by his comrades, who had a habit of giving him 
messages for their friends before they went into the 
field. Perhaps, moreover, the Major was of the opin- 
ion of those ancient writers who seemed to deem it 
more important to consider how a man lives than 
how he dies. 

“ It was some heart, trouble,” he concluded, 
“ brought on by worry or sudden excitement.” 

“ The Malgamite,” answered Joan. “ It has always 
been a source of uneasiness to him. He never quite 
understood it.” 

“ No,” answered the Major, very deliberately, “he 
never quite understood it.” And he looked out of 
the window with a thoughtful, non - committing 
face. 


275 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ Neither do I — understand it,” said Joan, doubt* 
fully. 

And the Major looked suddenly dense. He had, 
as usual, no explanation to offer. 

“ Was father deceived by some one ?” Joan asked, 
after a pause. “One hears such strange rumors 
about the Malgamite Fund. I suppose father was 
deceived.” 

She spoke of the dead man with that hushed voice 
which death with a singular impartiality to race or 
creed seems to demand of the survivors wheresoever 
he passes. White met her earnest gaze with a grave 
nod. 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ he was deceived.” 

“ He said, before he went out, that he did not 
want to go to the meeting at all,” went on Joan, in a 
tone of tender reminiscence, “ but that he had al- 
ways made a point of sacrificing his inclination to 
his sense of duty. Poor father !” 

“Yes,” said the Major, looking out of the window. 
And he bore Joan’s steady, searching glance like a 
man. 

“ Tell me,” she said, suddenly. “ Were you and 
Tony deceived also ?” 

Major White reflected for a moment. It is unwise 
to tell even the smallest lie in haste. 

“ No,” he answered at length. “ Not so entirely as 
your father.” 

He uncrossed his legs and made a feeble attempt 
to divert her thoughts. 

But Joan was on the trail, as it were, of a half- 
formed idea in her own mind, and she would not 
have been a woman if she had relinquished the quest 
so easily. 


276 


DE MORTUIS 


“But you were deceived at first ?” she inquired, 
rather anxiously. “ I know Tony was. I am sure 
of it. Perhaps he found out later ; but you — ” 

She drew her hand from under his rather hastily, 
having just found out that it was in that equivocal 
position. 

“ You were never deceived?” she said, with a sus- 
picion of resentment. 

“ Well — perhaps not,” admitted the Major, reluc- 
tantly. And he looked regretfully at the hand she 
had withdrawn. “ Don’t know much about chari- 
ties,” he continued, after a pause. “ Don’t quite look 
at them in the right light, perhaps. Seems to me 
that you ought to be more businesslike in charities 
than in anything else ; and we’re not business men 
— not even you.” 

He looked at her very solemnly and wisely, as if 
the thoughts in his mind would be of immense value 
if he could only express them — but he was without 
facilities in that direction. If one cannot be wise, 
the next best thing is to have a wise look. He rose, 
for he had caught sight of Tony Cornish crossing 
the Toornoifeld in the shade of the trees. Perhaps 
the Major had forgotten for the moment that a great 
man was dead ; that there were letters to be written 
and telegrams to be despatched ; that the world 
must know of it, and the insatiable maw of the pub- 
lic be closed by a few scraps of news. For the pub- 
lic mind must have its daily food, and the wise are 
they who tell it only that which it is expedient for 
it to know. 

Lord Ferriby’s life was, moreover, one that needed 
careful obituary treatment. Everybody’s life may 
for domestic purposes be described as a hash — but 
2 77 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Lord Ferriby’s was a hash which in the hands of a 
cheap democratic press might easily be served up 
so daintily as to be very savory in the nostrils of the 
world. Some of its component parts were indeed 
exceedingly ancient, and, so to speak, gamey, while 
the Malgamite scheme alone might easily be mag- 
nified into a very passable scandal. 

Tony came into the room, keen and capable. He 
did not show much feeling. Perhaps Joan and he 
understood each other without any such display. 
For they had known each other many years, and 
had understood other and more subtle matters with- 
out verbal explanation. For the world had been 
pleased to say that Joan and Tony must in the end 
inevitably marry. And they had never explained, 
never contradicted, and never married. 

While the three were still talking, a carriage rat- 
tled up to the door of the hotel, and then another. 
There began, in a word, that hushed confusion — that 
running to and fro as of ants upon a disturbed ant- 
hill — which follows hard upon the footsteps of the 
grim messenger, who himself is content to come so 
quietly and unobtrusively. Roden arrived to make 
inquiries, and Mrs. Vansittart, and a messenger from 
more than one embassy. Then the Wades came, 
brought hurriedly back by a messenger sent after 
them by Tony Cornish. 

Marguerite, with characteristic energy, came into 
the room first, quick and bright-eyed. She looked 
from one face to the other, and then crossed the room 
and stood beside Joan without speaking. She was 
smiling— a little hard smile with close-set lips — show- 
ing the world a face that meant to take life open- 
eyed, as it is, and make the best of it. 

278 


DE MORTUIS 


Before long the two girls quitted the room, leaving 
the three men to their hushed discussion. Tony had 
already provided himself with pen and paper. In 
twelve hours that which the world must know about 
Lord Ferriby should be in print. There was just 
time to cable it to the Times and the news agencies. 
And in these hurried days it is the first word which, 
after all, goes farthest and carries most weight. A 
contradiction is at all times a poor expedient. 

“ I have silenced the paper-makers,” said Cornish, 
sitting down to write, “ even that ass Thompson, by 
striking while the iron was hot.” 

“And Roden won’t open his lips,” added Mr. 
Wade, who, as he drove up, had seen that brilliant 
financier uneasily strolling under the trees of the 
Toornoifeld, looking towards the hotel ; for Lord 
Ferriby’s death was a link in the crooked Malga- 
mite chain which even Von Holzen had failed to 
foresee. 

Indeed, Lord Ferriby must have been gratified 
could he see the posthumous pother that he made by 
dying at this juncture. For in life he had only been 
important in his own eyes, and the world had taken 
little heed of him. This same keen - sighted world 
would not regret him much now, and would assured- 
ly mete out to that miserly old screw, his widow, 
only as much sympathy as the occasion deserved. 
Lady Ferriby would, the world suspected, sell off 
his lordship’s fancy waistcoats, and proceed to save 
money to her heart’s content. Even the thought of 
his club subscriptions, now necessarily to be discon- 
tinued, must have assuaged a large part of the wid- 
ow’s grief. Such, at least, was the opinion of the 
clubs themselves, when the news was posted up 
279 


RODEN’S CORNER 


among the weather reports and the latest tapes from 
the House that same evening. 

While Lord Ferriby’s friends were comfortably en- 
dowing him with a few compensating virtues over 
their tea and hot buttered toast in Pall Mall and St. 
James Street, Mr. Wade, Tony, and White dined to- 
gether at the Hotel of the Old Shooting-Gallery at 
the Hague. The hour was an early one, and had 
never been countenanced by Lord Ferriby, but the 
three men in whose hands he had literally left his 
good name did not attach supreme importance to 
this matter. Indeed, the banker thought kindly of 
six-thirty as an hour at which in earlier days he had 
been endowed with a better appetite than he ever 
possessed now at eight o’clock or later. While they 
were at table a telegram was handed to Cornish. It 
was from Lord Ferriby’s solicitor in London, and 
contained the advice that Tony Cornish had been 
appointed sole executor of his lordship’s will. 

“Thank God !” said Tony, as he read the message 
and handed it across to Mr. Wade, who looked at it 
gravely, without comment. 

“And now,” said Cornish, “not even Joan need 
know.”' 

For Cornish, having perceived Percy Roden under 
the trees of the Toornoifeld, had gone out there to 
speak to him, and in answer to a plain question had 
received a plain answer as to the price that Lord 
Ferriby had been paid for the use of his name in the 
Malgamite Fund transactions. 

Joan had elected to remain in her own rooms, with 
Marguerite to keep her company, until the evening, 
when, under White’s escort, she was to set out for 
England. The Major had in a minimum of words 
280 


DE MORTUIS 


expressed himself ready to do anything at any time, 
provided that the service did not require an abnor- 
mal conversational effort. 

“ I shall be home twenty-four hours after you,” said 
Cornish, as he bade Joan good-bye at the station. 
“ And you need believe no rumors and fear no gossip. 
If people ask impertinent questions, refer them to 
White.” 

“And I’ll thump them,” added the Major, who, in- 
deed, looked quite capable of rendering that practi- 
cal service. 

They were favored by a full moon and a perfect 
night for their passage from the Hook of Holland to 
Harwich. Joan expressed a desire to remain on 
deck, at all events until the lights of the Maas had 
been left behind. Major White procured two deck 
chairs, and found a corner of Jhe upper deck which 
was free alike from too much wind and too many 
people. There they sat, and Joan seemed fully occu- 
pied with her own thoughts, for she did not speak 
while the steamer ploughed steadily onward. 

“I wonder if it is my duty to continue to take an 
active part in the Malgamite Fund ?” she said at 
length. And the Major, who had been permitted to 
smoke, looked attentively at the lighted end of his 
cigar, and said nothing. 

“ I am afraid it must be,” continued Joan, whose 
earnest endeavors to find out what was her duty, and 
do it, occupied the larger part of her time and atten- 
tion. 

“Why?” asked Major White. 

“ Because I don’t want to.” 

The Major thought about the matter for a long 
time— almost half through a cigar. It was wonderful 
281 


RODEN’S CORNER 


how so much thought could result in so few words, 
especially in these days, which are essentially days of 
many words and little thought. During this period 
of meditation Joan sat looking out to sea, and the 
moon shining down upon her face showed it to be 
puckered with anxiety. Like many of her contem- 
poraries, she was troubled by an intense desire to do 
her duty, coupled with an unfortunate lack of duties 
to perform. 

“ I wish you would tell me what you think,” she 
said. 

“ Seems to me,” said White, “ that your duty is 
clear enough.” 

“Yes ?” 

“Yes. Drop the Malgamiters and the Haber- 
dashers and all that, and — marry me.” 

But Joan only shook her head sadly. 

“ That cannot be my duty,” she said. 

“ Why ? ’Cos it isn’t unpleasant enough ?” 

“ No,” answered Joan, after a pause, in the deepest 
earnestness. “ No — that’s just it.” 

Out of which ambiguous observation the Major 
seemed to gather some meaning, for he looked up at 
the moon with one of his most vacant smiles. 


SEEMS TO ME, SAID WHITE, ‘ THAT YOUR DUTY IS CLEAR ENOUGH 









CHAPTER XXIX 


A LESSON 

“ Whom the gods mean to destroy , they blind ” 

Mrs. Vansittart had passed that age when a 
young person respects love for its own sake, and 
would rather be admired by — well, a swain who is 
not quite a gentleman than not be admired at all. 
Fond mammas, it would appear, teach their daugh- 
ters that dress and deportment are important, but 
that which domestic servants so tersely call a “fol- 
lower ” is de rigueur. No self-respecting girl should 
dispense with this. And the result of such teaching 
are those periods of mental aberration which super- 
vene in all (prcles from Mayfair to the most select 
suburbs, which complacent mothers call a “regu- 
lar epidemic of engagements.” This epidemic really 
arises from the fact that sweetest Amy is not going 
to be left, as it were, on the shelf by darling Edith, 
who has just become affianced to a military officer 
seven years younger than herself. Amy, therefore, 
picks up anything she can get in the locality. Thus, 
if a younger sister only set the ball rolling, whole 
families of girls are seen to go off, so to speak, in a 
year, and there is much marrying in haste and more 
repenting at leisure. 

Mrs. Vansittart, however, had not the incentive 
283 


RODEN’S CORNER 


of a healthy competition. She had not that more 
dangerous incentive of middle-aged vanity which 
draws the finger of derision so often in the direc- 
tion of widows. And yet she took a certain pleas- 
ure in playing a half -careless and wholly cynical 
Juliet to Percy Roden’s gauche Romeo. She had 
no intention of marrying him, and yet she contin- 
ued to encourage him even now that open war 
was declared between Cornish and the Malgamite- 
makers. Cornish had, indeed, thanked Mrs. Van- 
sittart for her assistance in the past in such a man- 
ner as to convey to her that she could hardly be 
of use to him in the future. He had magnified 
her good offices, and had wiarned her to beware of 
arousing Von Holzen’s anger. Indeed, her use of 
Percy Roden was at an end, and yet she would not 
let him go. Cornish was puzzled, and so was Dorothy. 
Percy Roden was gratified, and read the riddle by the 
light of his own vanity. Mrs. Vansittart was not 
perhaps the first woman to puzzle her neighbors by 
refusing to relinquish that which she did not want. 
She was not the first, perhaps, to nurse a subtle de- 
sire to play some part on the world’s stage rather 
than be left idle in the wings. So she played the 
part that came first and easiest to her hand — a wom- 
an’s natural part, of stirring up strife between men. 

She was therefore gratified when Von Holzen 
made his way slowly towards her through the crowd 
on the Kursaal terrace one afternoon on the occasion 
of a Thursday concert. She was sitting alone in a 
far corner of the terrace, protected by a glass screen 
from the wind which ever blows at Scheveningen. 
She never mingled with the summer visitors at this 
popular Dutch resort — indeed, knew none of them. 

284 


4 


A LESSON 


Von Holzen seemed to be similarly situated ; but 
Mrs. Vansittart knew that he did not seek her out 
on that account. He was Hot a man to do anything 
— much less be sociable — out of idleness. He only 
dealt with his fellow-beings when he had a use for 
them. 

She returned his grave bow with an almost im- 
perceptible movement of the head, and for a moment 
they looked hard at each other. 

“ Madame still lingers at the Hague,” he said. 

“As you see.” 

“ And is the game worth the candle ?” 

He laid his hand tentatively on a chair, and looked 
towards her with an interrogative glance. He would 
not, it appeared, sit down without her permission. 
And, womanlike, she gave it, with a shrug of one 
shoulder. A woman rarely refuses a challenge. 

“ And is the game worth the candle ?” he repeated. 

“One can only tell when it is played out,” was the 
reply ; and Herr Von Holzen glanced quickly at the 
lady who made it. He turned away and listened to 
the music. An occasional concert was the one di- 
version he allowed himself at this time from his 
most absorbing occupation of making a fortune. 
He had probably a real love of music, which is not 
by any means given to the good only, or the virtu- 
ous. Indeed, it is the art most commonly allied to 
vice. 

“ By the way,” said Von Holzen, after a pause, 
“ that paper which it pleased madame’s fantasy to 
possess at one time — is destroyed. Its teaching ex- 
ists only in my unworthy brain.” 

He turned and looked at her with his slow smile, 
his measuring eyes. 


285 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ Ah !” 

“ Yes — so madame need give the question no more 
thought, and may turn her full attention to her new 
— fancy.” 

Mrs. Vansittart was studying her programme, and 
did not look up or display the slightest interest in 
what he was saying. 

“ Every event seems but to serve to strengthen 
our position,” went on Von Holzen, still half listen- 
ing to the music. “ Even the untimely death of 
Lord Ferriby — which might at first have appeared 
a contretemps. Cornish takes home the coffin by to- 
night’s mail, I understand. Men may come, ma- 
dame, and men may go — but we go on forever. 
We are still prosperous — despite our friends. And 
Cornish is nonplussed. He does not know what to 
do next — and fate seems to be against him. He has 
no luck. We are manufacturing — day and night.” 

“You are interested in Mr. Cornish,” observed 
Mrs. Vansittart, coolly ; and she saw a sudden gleam 
in Von Holzen’s eyes. After all, the man had 3 pas- 
sion over which his control was insecure — the last, 
the longest of the passions — hatred. He shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“He has forced himself upon our notice — un- 
necessarily, as the result has proved — only to find 
out that there is no stopping us.” He could scarce- 
ly control his voice as he spoke of Cornish, and 
looked away as if fearing to show the expression of 
his eyes. 

Mrs. Vansittart watched him with a cool little 
smile. Von Holzen had not come here to talk of 
Cornish. He had come on purpose to say some- 
thing which he had not succeeded in saying yet, and 
286 


A LESSON 


she was not ignorant of this. She was going to 
make it as difficult as possible for him, so that when 
he at last said what he had come to say, she should 
know it, and perhaps divine his motives. 

“ Even now,” he continued, “ we have succeeded 
beyond our expectations. We are rich men, so that 
madame — need delay no longer.” He turned and 
looked her straight in the eyes. 

“ I ” — she inquired, with raised eyebrows — “ need 
delay no longer — in what ?” 

“ In consummating the happiness of my partner, 
Percy Roden,” he was clever enough to say without 
being impertinent. “ He — or his banking account — 
is really worth the attention of any lady.” 

Mrs. Vansittart laughed, and, before answering, 
acknowledged stiffly the stiff salutation of a passer. 
“Then it is suggested that I am waiting for Mr. 
Roden to be rich enough in order to marry him ?” 

“ It is the talk of gossips and servants.” 

Mrs. Vansittart looked at him with an amused 
smile. Did he really know so little of the world as 
to take his information from gossips and servants ? 

“ Ah,” she said, and that was all. She rose and 
made a little signal with her parasol to her coach- 
man, who was waiting in the shadow of the Kursaal. 
As she drove home she wondered why Von Holzen 
was afraid that she should marry Percy Roden, who, 
as it happened, was coming to tea in Park Straat 
that evening. Mrs. Vansittart had not exactly in- 
vited him — not, at all events, that he was aware of. 
He was under the impression that he had himself 
proposed the visit. 

She remembered that he was coming, but gave no 
further thought to him. All her mind was, indeed, 
287 


RODEN’S CORNER 


absorbed with thoughts of Von Holzen, whom she 
hated with the dull and deadly hatred of the help- 
less. The sight of him, the sound of his voice, 
stirred something within her that vibrated for hours, 
so that she could think of nothing else — could not 
even give her attention to the little incidents of 
daily life. She pretended to herself that she sought 
retribution — that she wished on principle to check a 
scoundrel in his successful career. The heart, how- 
ever, knows no principles ; for these are created by 
and belong to the mind. Which explains why many 
women seem to have no principles, and many virtu- 
ous persons no heart. 

Mrs. Vansittart went home to make a careful toilet 
pending the arrival of Percy Roden. She came 
down to the drawing-room, s\nd stood idly at the 
window. “The talk of gossips and servants,” she 
repeated bitterly to herself. One of Von Holzen’s 
shafts, at all events, had gone home. And Percy 
Roden came into the room a few minutes afterwards. 
His manner had more assurance than when he had 
first made Mrs. Vansittart’s acquaintance. He had, 
perhaps, a trifle less respect for the room and its oc- 
cupant. Mrs. Vansittart had allowed him to come 
nearer to her ; and when a woman allows a man of 
whom she has a low opinion to come near to her she 
trifles with her own self-respect, and does harm 
which, perhaps, may never be repaired. 

“ I was too busy to go to the concert this after- 
noon,” he said, sitting down in his loose-limbed way. 
His assumption that his absence had been noticed 
rather nettled his hearer. 

“ Ah ! Were you not there ?” she inquired. 

He turned and looked at her with his curt laugh. 

288 


A LESSON 


“ If I had been there, you would have known it,” he 
said. It was just one of those remarks — delivered in 
the half-mocking voice assumed in self-protection — 
which Mrs. Vansittart had hitherto allowed to pass 
unchallenged. And now, quite suddenly, she re- 
sented the manner and the speech. 

“ Indeed,” she said, with a subtle inflection of tone 
which should have warned him. But he was en- 
gaged in drawing down his cuffs. Many young men 
would know more of the world if they had no cuffs 
or collars to distract them. 

“Yes,” answered Roden; “if I had gone to the 
concert, it would not have been for the music.” 

Percy Roden’s method of making love was essen- 
tially modern. He threw to Mrs. Vansittart certain 
scraps of patronage and admiration, which she could 
pick up seriously and keep if she cared to. But he 
was not going to risk a v:>ound to his vanity by tak- 
ing the initiative too earnestly. Mrs. Vansittart, 
who was busy at the tea-table, set down a cup and 
crossed the room towards him. 

“What do you mean, Mr. Roden?” she asked, 
slowly. 

He looked up with wavering eyes, and visibly lost 
color under her gaze. “What do I mean?” 

“ Yes. What do you mean when you say that if 
you had gone to the concert it would not have been 
for the music ; that if you had been there I should 
have known of your presence, and a hundred other 
— impertinences ?” 

At first Roden thought that the way was being 
made easy for him as it is in books, as, indeed, it 
sometimes is in life, when it happens to be a way 
that is not worth the treading; but the last word 
t 289 


RODEN’S CORNER 


stung him like a lash — as it was meant to sting. It 
was perhaps that one word that made him rise from 
his chair. 

“ If you meant to object to anything that I may 
say, you should have done so long ago,” he said. 
“Who was the first to speak at the hotel when I 
first came to the Hague ? Which of us was it that 
kept the friendship up and cultivated it ? I am not 
blind. I could hardly be anything else if I had 
failed to see what you have meant all along.” 

“ What have I meant all along ?” she asked, with a 
strange little smile. 

“ Why, you have meant me to say such things as I 
have said, and perhaps more.” 

“ More — what can you mean?” 

She looked at him still with a smile, which he did 
not understand. And like many men he allowed his 
vanity to explain things which his comprehension 
failed to elucidate. 

“Well,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, “will 
you marry me? — there !” 

“ No, Mr. Roden, I will not,” she answered prompt- 
ly ; and then suddenly her eyes flashed, at some rec- 
ollection perhaps — at some thought connected with 
her happy past contrasted with this sordid, ignoble 
present. 

“You?” she cried. “ Marry you ?” 

“Why?” he asked, with a bitter laugh. “What is 
there wrong with me ?” 

“ I do not know what there is wrong with you. 
And I am not interested to inquire. But, so far as 
I am concerned, there is nothing right.” 

A woman’s answer, after all— and one of those rea- 
sons which are no reasons, and yet rule the world. 

290 


YOU !’ SHF. CRIED. ‘ MARRY YOU ? 






A LESSON 


Roden looked at her, completely puzzled. In a 
flash of thought he recalled Dorothy’s warning and 
her incomprehensible foresight. 

“ Then,” he said, lapsing in his haste into the terse 
language of his every-day life and thought, “ what 
on earth have you been driving at all along ?” 

“ I have been driving at Herr Von Holzen and the 
Malgamite scheme. I have been helping Tony Cor- 
nish,” she answered. 

So Percy Roden quitted the house at the corner 
of Park Straat a wiser man, and perhaps he left a 
wiser woman in it. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Vansittart to Marguerite 
Wade, long afterwards, when a friendship had sprung 
up and ripened between them — “ my dear, never let 
a man ask you to marry him unless you mean to 
say yes. It will do neither of you any good.” 

And Marguerite, who never allowed another the 
last word, gave a shrewd little nod before she an- 
swered, “ I always say no — before they ask me.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


ON THE QUEEN’S CANAL 
“ There's not a ciime 

But takes its proper change still out in crime 
If once rung on the counter of this world" 

Cornish went back to the Hague immediately af- 
ter Lord Ferriby’s funeral, because it has been de- 
creed that for all men this large world shall sooner 
or later narrow down to one city, perhaps, or one 
village, or a single house. For a man’s life is always 
centred round a memory or a hope, and neither of 
those requires much space wherein to live. Tony 
Cornish’s world had narrowed to the Villa des Dunes 
on the sand-hills of Scheveningen, and his mind’s 
eye was always turned in that direction. His one 
thought at this time was to protect Dorothy — to 
keep, if possible, the name she bore from harm and 
dl-fame. Each day that passed meant death to the 
Malgamite-workers. He could not delay. He dared 
not hurry. He wrote again to Percy Roden from 
London, amid the hurried preparations for the fu- 
neral, and begged him to sever his connection with 
Von Holzen. 

“You will not have time,’’ he wrote, “to answer 
this before I leave for the Hague. I shall stay on 
the Toornoifeld as usual, and hope to arrive about 
292 


ON THE QUEEN’S CANAL 


nine o’clock to-morrow evening. I shall leave the 
hotel about a quarter past nine and walk down the 
right - hand bank of the Koninginne Gracht, and 
should like to meet you by the canal, where we can 
have a talk. I have many reasons to submit to your 
consideration why it will be expedient for you to 
come over to my side in this difference now, which 
I cannot well set down on paper. And remember, 
that between men of the world, such as I suppose 
we may take ourselves to be, there is no question of 
one of us judging the other. Let me beg of you to 
consider your position in regard to the Malgamite 
scheme — and meet me to-morrow night between the 
Malie Veld and the Achter Weg about half past 
nine. I cannot see you at the works, and it would 
be better for you not to come to my hotel.” 

The letter was addressed to the Villa des Dunes, 
where Roden received it the next morning. Doro- 
thy saw it, and guessed from whom it was, though 
she hardly knew her lover’s writing. He had ad- 
hered firmly to his resolution to keep himself in the 
background until he had finished the work he had 
undertaken. He had not written to her ; had scarce- 
ly seen her. Roden read the letter, and put it in 
his pocket without a word. It had touched his vani- 
ty. He had had few dealings with men of the stand- 
ing and position of Cornish, and here was this peer’s 
nephew and peer’s grandson appealing to him as to 
a friend, classing him together with himself as a 
man of the world. No one has so little discretion 
as a vain man. It is almost impossible for him to 
keep silence when speech will make for his glorifica- 
tion. 

Roden arrived at the works well pleased with him- 
293 


RODEN’S CORNER 


self, and found Von Holzen in their little office, put 
out, ill at ease, domineering. It was unfortunate, if 
you will. Percy Roden was always ready to per- 
ceive his own ill-fortune, and looked back later to 
this as one of his most untoward hours. Life, how- 
ever, should surely consist of seizing the fortunate 
and fighting through the ill moments — else why 
should men have heart and nerve ? 

In such humors as they found themselves it did 
not take long for these two men to find a question 
upon which to differ. It was a mere matter of de- 
tail connected with the money at that time passing 
through their hands. 

“ Of course,” said Roden, in the course of a useless 
and trivial dispute — “ of course you think you know 
best, but you know nothing of finance — remember 
that. Everybody knovrs that it is I who have run 
that part of the business. Ask old Wade, or White 
— or Cornish.” 

The argument had, in truth, been rather one- 
sided. For Roden had done all the talking, while 
Von Holzen looked at him with a quiet eye and a 
silent contempt that made him talk all the more. 
Von Holzen did not answer now, though his eye 
lighted at the mention of Cornish’s name. He 
merely looked at Roden with a smile, which con- 
veyed as clearly as words Von Holzen’s suggestion 
that none of the three men named would be pre- 
pared to give Roden a very good character. 

“ I had a letter, by the way, from Cornish this 
morning,” said Roden, lapsing into his grander 
manner, which Von Holzen knew how to turn to 
account. 

“Ah — bah !” he exclaimed, sceptically. And that 
294 


ON THE QUEEN’S CANAL 

lurking vanity of the inferior to lessen his own in- 
feriority in the eyes of one who is his better did the 
rest. 

“ If you don’t believe me — there you are,” said 
Roden, throwing the letter upon the table — not ill 
pleased, in the heat of the moment, to show that he 
was a more important person than his companion 
seemed to think. 

Von Holzen read the letter slowly and thought- 
fully. The fact that it was evidently intended for 
Roden’s private eye did not seem to affect one or the 
other of these two men, who had travelled with diffi- 
culty along the road to fortune, only reaching their 
bourn at last with a light stock of scruples and a 
shattered code of honor. Then he folded it and 
handed it back. He was not likely to forget a word 
of it. 

“ I suppose you will go,” he said. “ It will be in- 
teresting to hear what he has to say. That letter is 
a confession of weakness.” 

In making which statement Von Holzen showed 
his own weak point. For, like many clever men, he 
utterly failed to give to women their place — the lead- 
ing place — in the world’s history, as in the little his- 
tories of our daily lives. He never detected Dorothy 
between every line of Cornish’s letter, and thought 
that it had only been dictated by inability to meet 
the present situation. 

“ I cannot very well refuse to go, since the fellow 
asks me,” said Roden, grandly. He might as well 
have displayed his grandeur to a statue. If love is 
blind, self-love is surely half-witted as well ; for it 
never sees nor understands that the world is fooling 
it. Roden failed to heed the significant fact that 
295 


RODEN’S CORNER 


Von Holzen did not even ask him what line of con- 
duct he intended to follow with regard to Cornish, 
nor seek in his autocratic way to instruct him on 
that point, but turned instead to other matters, and 
did not again refer to Cornish or the letter he had 
written. 

So the day wore on while Cornish impatiently 
walked the deck of the steamer, ploughing its way 
across the North Sea, through showers and thunder- 
storms and those gray squalls that flit to and fro on 
the German Ocean. And some tons of Malgamite 
were made, while a manufacturer or two of the grim 
product laid aside his tools forever, while the money 
flowed in, and Otto Von Holzen thought out his deep, 
silent plans over his vats and tanks and crucibles. 
And all the while those who write in the book of fate 
had penned the last decree. 

Cornish arrived punctually at the Hague. He 
drove to the hotel where he was known, where, in- 
deed, he had never relinquished his room. There 
was no letter for him — no message from Percy Roden. 
But Von Holzen had unobtrusively noted his arrival 
at the station from the crowded retreat of the second- 
class waiting-room. 

The day had been a very hot one, and from canal 
and dike arose that strange sedgy odor which comes 
with the cool of night in all Holland. It is hardly 
disagreeable, and conveys no sense of unhealthiness. 
It seems merely to be the breath of still waters, and, 
in hot weather, suggests very pleasantly the relief 
of Northern night. The Hague has two dominant 
smells. In winter, f when the canals are frozen, the 
reek of burning peat is on the air, and in the summer 
the odor of slow waters. Cornish knew them both. 

296 


ON THE QUEEN’S CANAL 

He knew everything about this Old World city, 
where the turning-point of his life had been fixed. 
It was deserted now. The great houses, the theatre 
— the show-places — were closed. The Toornoifeld 
was empty. 

The hotel porter, aroused by the advent of the 
traveller from an after-dinner nap in his little glass 
box, spread out his hands with a gesture of surprise. 

“The season is over,” he said. “We are empty. 
Why do you come to the Hague now ?” 

Even the sentries at the end of the Korte Vorhout 
wore a holiday air of laxness and swung their rifles 
idly. Cornish noticed that only half of the lamps 
were lighted. 

The banks of the Queen’s Canal are heavily shaded 
by trees, which, indeed, throw out their branches to 
meet above the weed-sown water. There is a broad 
thoroughfare on either side of the canal, though 
little traffic passes that way. These are two of the 
many streets of the Hague which seem to speak of a 
by-gone day, when Holland played a greater part 
in the world’s history than she does at present, for 
the houses are bigger than the occupants must need, 
and the streets are too wide for the traffic passing 
through them. In the middle, the canal — a gloomy 
corridor beneath the trees — creeps noiselessly tow- 
ards the sea. 

Cornish was before the appointed hour, and walked 
leisurely by the pathway between the trees and the 
canal. Soon the houses were left behind, and he 
passed the great open space called the Malie Veld. 
He had met no one since leaving the guard-house. 
It was a dark night, with no moon, but the stars 
were peeping through the riven clouds. 

297 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“ Unless he stands under a lamp, I shall not see 
him,” he said to himself, and lighted a cigar to indi- 
cate his whereabouts to Roden, should he elect to 
keep his appointment. When he had gone a few 
paces farther he saw some one coming towards him. 
There was a lamp half-way between them, and, as 
he approached the light, Cornish recognized Roden. 
There was no mistaking the long, loose stride. 

“ I wonder,” said Cornish, “ if this is going to be 
the end of it ?” 

And he went forward to meet the financier. 

“ I was afraid you would not come,” he said, in a 
voice that was friendly enough ; for he was a man of 
the world, and in that which is called Society (with 
a capital letter) had rubbed elbows all his life with 
many who had no better reputation than Percy Ro- 
den, and some who deserved a worse. 

“ Oh, I don’t mind coming,” answered Roden, “ be- 
cause I did not want to keep you waiting here in the 
dark. But it is no good, I tell you that at the out- 
set.” 

“ And nothing I can say will alter your decision ?” 

“ Nothing. A man does not get two such chances 
as this in his lifetime. I am not going to throw this 
one away for the sake of a sentiment.” 

“ Sentiment hardly describes the case,” said Cor- 
nish, thoughtfully. “Do you mean to tell me that 
you do not care about all these deaths — about these 
poor devils of Malgamiters ?” 

And he looked hard at his companion beneath the 
lamp. 

“Not a damn,” answered Roden. “I have been 
poor — you haven’t. Why, man, I have starved in- 
side a good coat. You don’t know what that means.” 

298 


ON THE QUEEN’S CANAL 

Cornish looked at him, and said nothing. There 
was no mistaking the man’s sincerity — nor the man- 
ner in which his voice suddenly broke when he 
spoke of hunger. 

“ Then there are only two things left for me to 
do,” said Cornish, after a moment’s reflection. “ Ask 
your sister to marry me first, and smash you up af- 
terwards.” 

Roden, who was smoking, threw his cigarette 
away. 

“ You mean to do both these things ?” 

“ Both.” 

Roden looked at him. He opened his lips to speak, 
but suddenly leaped back. 

“Look out!” he cried, and had barely time to 
point over Cornish’s shoulder. 

Cornish swung round on his heel. He belonged 
to a school and generation which, with all its faults, 
has, at all events, the redeeming quality of courage. 
He had long learned to say the right thing, which 
effectually teaches men to do the right thing also. 
He saw some one running towards him, noiselessly, 
in rubber shoes. He had no time to think, and 
scarce a moment in which to act, for the man was 
but two steps away with an upraised arm, and in the 
lamplight there flashed the gleam of steel. 

Cornish concentrated his attention on the upraised 
arm, seizing it with both hands and actually swinging 
his assailant off his legs. He knew in an instant who 
it was, without needing to recognize the smell of 
Malgamite. This was Otto Von Holzen, who had 
not hesitated to state his opinion — that it is often 
worth a man’s while to kill another. 

While his feet were still off the ground Cornish 
299 


RODEN’S CORNER 

let him go, and he staggered away into the darkness 
of the trees. Cornish, who was lithe and quick, 
rather than of great physical force, recovered his 
balance in a moment, and turned to face the trees. 
He knew that Von Holzen would come back. He 
distinctly hoped that he would. For man is es- 
sentially the first of the “game” animals, and be- 
neath fine clothes there nearly always beats a heart 
ready, quite suddenly, to snatch the fearful joy of 
battle. 

Von Holzen did not disappoint him, but came fly- 
ing on silent feet, like some beast of prey, from the 
darkness. Cornish had played half - back for his 
school not so many years before. He collared Von 
Holzen low, and let him go, with a cruel skill, heavily 
on his head and shoulder. Not a word had been 
spoken, and, in the stillness of the summer night, 
each could hear the other breathing. 

Roden stood quite still. He could scarcely distin- 
guish the antagonists. His own breath came whist- 
ling through his teeth. His white face was ghastly 
and twitching. His sleepy eyes were awake now, 
and staring. 

Each charge had left Cornish nearer to the canal. 
He was standing now quite at the edge. He could 
smell, but he could not see the water, and dared not 
turn his head to look. There is no railing here, as 
there is nearer the town. 

In a moment Von Holzen was on his feet again. 
In the dark, mere inches are much equalized between 
men — but Von Holzen had a knife. Cornish, who 
held nothing in his hands, knew that he was at a 
fatal disadvantage. 

Again Von Holzen ran at him with his arm out- 
300 





VON HOLZEN FELL HEADLONG INTO THE CANAL 


























ON THE QUEEN’S CANAL 

stretched for a swinging stab. Cornish, in a flash of 
thought, recognized that he could not meet this. 
He stepped neatly aside. Von Holzen attempted to 
stop — stumbled — half-recovered himself, and fell 
headlong into the canal. 

In a moment Cornish and Roden were at the 
edge, peering into the darkness. Cornish gave a 
breathless laugh. 

“ We shall have to fish him out,” he said. 

And he knelt down, ready to give a hand to Von 
Holzen. But the water, smooth again now, was not 
stirred by so much as a ripple. 

“Suppose he can swim?” muttered Roden, un- 
easily. 

And they waited in a breathless silence. There 
was something horrifying in the single splash and 
then the stillness. 

“ Gad !” whispered Cornish. “ Where is he ?” 

Roden struck a match, and held it inside his hat 
so as to form a sort of lantern, though the air was 
still enough. Cornish did the same, and they held 
the lights out over the water, throwing the feeble 
rays right across the canal. 

“ He cannot have swum away,” he said. 

“Von Holzen!” he cried out, cautiously, after an- 
other pause. “ Von Holzen — where are you ?” 

But there was no answer. 

The surface of the canal was quite still and glassy 
in those parts that were not covered by the close- 
lying duck-weed. The water crept stealthily, slimily, 
towards the sea. 

The two men held their breath and waited. Cor- 
nish was kneeling at the edge of the water, peering 
over. 


301 


RODEN’S CORNER 

“Where is he?” he repeated. “Gad! Roden, 
where is he ?” 

And Roden, in a hoarse voice, answered at length, 
“ He is in the mud at the bottom — head down- 
ward.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


AT THE CORNER 
“ V hovivie s'agite et Dieu le mene" 

The two men on the edge of the canal waited and 
listened again. It seemed still possible that Von 
Holzen had swum away in the darkness — had per- 
haps landed safely and unperceived on the other 
side. 

“ This,” said Cornish, at length, “ is a police affair. 
Will you wait here while I go and fetch them ?” 

But Roden made no answer, and in the sudden 
silence Cornish heard the eerie sound of chattering 
teeth. Percy Roden had morally collapsed. His 
mind had long been at a great tension, and this 
shock had unstrung him. Cornish seized him by 
the arm, and held him while he shook like a leaf and 
swayed heavily. 

“Come, man,” said Cornish, kindly — “come, pull 
yourself together.” 

He held him steadily and patiently until the shak- 
ing ceased. 

“ I’ll go,” said Roden, at length. “ I couldn’t stay 
here alone.” 

And he staggered away towards the Hague. It 
seemed hours before he came back. A carriage 
rattled past Cornish while he waited there, and two 

303 


RODEN’S CORNER 


foot-passengers paused for a moment to look at him 
with some suspicion. 

At last Roden returned, accompanied by a police 
official — a phlegmatic Dutchman, who listened to the 
story in silence. He shook his head at Cornish’s sug- 
gestion, made in halting Dutch mingled with German, 
that Von Holzen had swum away in the darkness. 

“ No,” said the officer ; “ I know these canals — and 
this above all others. They will find him, planted in 
the mud at the bottom, head downward like a tulip. 
The head goes in and the hands are powerless, for 
they only grasp soft mud like a fresh junket.” He 
drew his short sword from its sheath and scratched 
a deep mark in the gravel. Then he turned to the 
nearest tree and made a notch on the bark with the 
blade. “ There is nothing to be done to-night,” he 
said, philosophically. “ There are men engaged in 
dredging the canal. I will set them to work at 
dawn before the world is astir. In the meantime” 
— he paused to return his sword to its scabbard — 
“ in the meantime I must have the names and resi- 
dence of these gentlemen. It is not for me to be- 
lieve or disbelieve their story.” 

“ Can you go home alone ? Are you all right 
now ?” Cornish asked Roden, as he walked away 
with him towards the Villa des Dunes. 

“ Yes, I can go home alone,” he answered, and 
walked on by himself, unsteadily. Cornish watched 
him, and, before he had gone twenty yards, Roden 
stopped. 

“ Cornish !” he shouted. 

“ Yes.” And they walked towards each other. 

“ I did not know that Von Holzen was there. 
You will believe that ?” 


304 


AT THE CORNER 


“ Yes, I will believe that,” answered Cornish. 

And they parted a second time. Cornish walked 
slowly back to the hotel. He limped a little, for 
Von Holzen had in the struggle kicked him on the 
ankle. He suddenly felt very tired, but was not 
shaken. On the contrary, he felt relieved, as if that 
which he had been attempting so long had been sud- 
denly taken from his hands and consummated by a 
higher power, with whom all responsibility rested. 
He went to bed with a mechanical deliberation, and 
slept instantly. The daylight was streaming into 
the window when he awoke. No one sleeps very 
heavily at the Hague — no one knows why — and 
Cornish awoke with all his senses about him at the 
opening of his bedroom door. Roden had come in 
and was standing by the bedside. His eyes had a 
sleepless look. He looked, indeed, as if he had been 
up all night and had just had a bath. 

“ I say,” he said, in his hollow voice — “ I say, get 
up. They have found him — and we are wanted. We 
have to go and identify him — and all that.” 

While Cornish was dressing, Roden sat heavily 
down on a chair near the window. 

“ Hope you’ll stick by me,” he said, and, pausing, 
stretched out his hand to the washing-stand to pour 
himself out a glass of water — “ I hope you’ll stick 
by me. I’m so confoundedly shaky. Don’t know 
what it is — look at my hand.” He held out his hand, 
which shook like a drunkard’s. 

“ That is only nerves,” said Cornish, who was ever 
optimistic and cheerful. He was too wise to weigh 
carefully his reasons for looking at the best side of 
events. “ That is nothing. You have not slept, I 
expect.” 
u 


305 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“No; I’ve been thinking. I say, Cornish — you 
must stick by me — I have been thinking. What am 
I to do with the Malgamiters? I cannot manage 
the devils as Von Holzen did. I’m — I’m a bit afraid 
of them, Cornish.” 

“ Oh, that will be all right. Why, we have Wade, 
and can send for White if we want him. Do not 
worry yourself about that. What you want is break- 
fast. Have you had any ?” 

“ No. I left the house before Dorothy was awake 
or the servants were down. She knows nothing. 
Dorothy and I have not hit it off lately.” 

Cornish made no answer. He was ringing the bell 
and ordered coffee when the waiter came. “ Haven’t 
met any incident in life yet,” he said, cheerfully, 
“that seemed to justify missing meals.” 

The incident that awaited them was not, however, 
a pleasant one, though the magistrate in attendance 
afforded a courteous assistance in the observance of 
necessary formalities. Both men made a deposition 
before him. 

“ I know something,” he said to Cornish, “ of this 
Malgamite business. We have had our eye upon Von 
Holzen for some time — if only on account of the 
death-rate of the city.” 

They breathed more freely when they were out 
in the street. Cornish made some unimportant re- 
mark, which the other did not answer. So they walk- 
ed on in silence. Presently Cornish glanced at his 
companion, and was startled at the sight of his face 
— which was gray, and glazed all over with per- 
spiration, as an actor’s face may sometimes be at 
the end of a great act. Then he remembered that 
Roden had not spoken for a long time. 

306 



“‘WHAT AM I TO DO WITH THE MALGAMITERS ?”’ 





i 














% 













AT THE CORNER 


“ What is the matter ?” he asked. 

“ Didn’t you see ?” gasped Roden. 

“ See what ?” 

“The things they had laid on the table beside 
him — the things they found in his hands and his 
pockets.” 

“ The knife, you mean,” said Cornish, whose nerves 
were worthy of the blood that flowed in his veins, 
“ and some letters ?” 

“Yes ; the knife was mine. Everybody knows it. 
It is an old dagger that has always lain on a table 
in the drawing-room at the Villa des Dunes.” 

“ I have never been in the drawing-room at the 
Villa des Dunes except once by lamplight,” said Cor- 
nish, indifferently. 

Roden turned and looked at him, with eyes still 
dull with fear. “And among the letters was the 
one you wrote to me, making the appointment. He 
must have stolen it from the pocket of my office- 
coat, which I never wear while I am working.” 

Cornish was nodding his head slowly. “ I see,” he 
said, at length — “ I see. It was a pretty coup. To 
kill me and fix the crime on you — and hang you ?” 

“Yes,” said Roden, with a sudden laugh, which 
neither forgot to his dying day. 

They walked on in silence. For there are times 
in nearly every man’s life when events seem sudden- 
ly to outpace thought, and we can only act as seems 
best at the moment ; times when the babbler is still 
and the busybody at rest ; times when the cleverest 
of us must recognize that the dong and short of it 
all is that man agitates himself and God leads him. 
At the corner of the Vyverberg they parted — Cor- 
nish to return to his hotel, Roden to go back to the 
3 °7 


RODEN’S CORNER 


works. His carriage was awaiting him in a shady 
corner of the Binnenhof. For Roden had his car- 
riage now, and, like many possessing suddenly such 
a vehicle, spent much time and thought in getting 
his money’s worth out of it. 

“ If you want me, send for me, or come to the 
hotel,” were Cornish’s last words, as he shut the suc- 
cessful financier into his brougham. 

At the hotel Cornish found Mr. Wade and Mar- 
guerite lingering over a late breakfast. 

“ You look,” said Marguerite, “as if you had been 
up to something.” She glanced at him shrewdly, 
with her light laugh. “ Have you smashed Roden’s 
Corner ?” she asked, suddenly. 

“Yes,” answered Cornish, turning to Mr. Wade, 
“ and if you will come out into the garden, I will tell 
you how it has been done. Monsieur Creil said that 
the paper-makers could begin supplying themselves 
with Malgamite at a day’s notice. We must give 
them that notice this morning.” 

Mr. Wade, who was never hurried and never late, 
paused at the open window to light his cigar before 
following Marguerite. “Ah,” he said, placidly, “then 
fortune must have favored you, or something has 
happened to Von Holzen.” 

Cornish knew that it was useless to attempt to 
conceal anything whatsoever from the discerning 
Marguerite, so — in the quiet garden of the hotel, 
where the doves murmur sleepily on the tiles and 
the breeze only stirs the flowers and shrubs suffi- 
ciently to disseminate their scents — he told father 
and daughter the end of Roden’s Corner. 

They were still in the garden, an hour later, writ- 
ing letters and telegrams, and making arrangements 
308 


AT THE CORNER 


to meet this new turn in events, when Dorothy 
Roden came down the iron steps from the veranda. 

She hurried towards them, and shook hands, with- 
out explaining her sudden arrival. 

“ Is Percy here ?” she asked Cornish. “ Have you 
seen him this morning?” 

“ He is not here, but I parted from him a couple 
of hours ago on the Vyverberg. He was going down 
to the works.” 

“ Then he never got there,” said Dorothy. “ I 
have had nearly all the Malgamiters at the Villa des 
Dunes. They are in open rebellion, and if Percy 
had been there they would have killed him. They 
have heard a report that Herr Von Holzen is dead — 
is it true ?” 

“ Yes. Von Holzen is dead.” 

“ And they broke into the office. They got at the 
books. They found out the profits that have been 
made, and they are perfectly wild with fury. They 
would have wrecked the Villa des Dunes, but — ” 

“ — But they were afraid of you, my dear,” said 
Mr. Wade, filling in the blank that Dorothy left. 

“Yes,” she admitted. 

“Well played!” muttered Marguerite, with shin- 
ing eyes. 

Cornish had risen, and was folding away his pa- 
pers. 

“ I will go down to the works,” he said. 

“ But you cannot go there alone,” put in Dorothy, 
quickly. 

“ He will not need to do that,” said Mr. Wade, 
throwing the end of his cigar into the bushes and 
rising heavily from his chair. 

Marguerite looked at her father with a little up- 

309 


RODEN’S CORNER 


ward jerk of the head and a light in her eyes. It 
was quite evident that she approved of the old 
gentleman. 

“ He’s a game old thing,” she said, aside to Doro- 
thy, while her father collected his papers. 

“ Your brother has probably been warned in time, 
and will not go near the works,” said Cornish to 
Dorothy. “ He was more than prepared for such an 
emergency ; for he told me himself that he was half 
afraid of the men. He is almost sure to come to me 
here — in fact, he promised to do so if he wanted help.” 

Dorothy looked at him, and said nothing. The 
world would be a simpler dwelling-place if those 
who, for one reason or another, cannot say exactly 
what they mean would but keep silence. 

Cornish told her hurriedly what had happened 
twelve hours ago on the bank of the Queen’s Canal, 
and the thought of the misspent, crooked life that 
had ended in the black waters of that sluggish tide- 
way made them all silent for a while. For Death is 
in itself dignified, and demands respect for all with 
whom he has dealings. Many attain the distinction 
of yice in life, while more only reach the mere me- 
diocrity of foolishness ; but in death all are equally 
dignified. We may, indeed, assume that we shall, 
by dying, at last command the respect of even our 
nearest relations and dearest friends — for a week or 
two, until they forget us. 

“He was a clever man,” commented Mr. Wade, 
shutting np his gold pencil-case and putting it in 
the pocket of his comfortable waistcoat. “ But clever 
men are rarely happy — ” 

“ And clever women — never,” added Marguerite — 
that shrewd seeker after the last word. 

310 


AT THE CORNER 


While they were still speaking, Percy Roden came 
hurriedly down the steps. He was pale and tired, but 
his eye had a light of resolution in it. He held his 
head up and looked at Cornish with a steady glance. 
It seemed that the vague danger which he had an- 
ticipated so nervously had come at last, and that he 
stood like a man in the presence of it. 

“ It is all up,” he said “ They have found the 
books ; they have understood them ; and they are 
wrecking the place.” 

“ They are quite welcome to do that,” said Cor- 
nish. 

Mr. Wade, who was always businesslike, had re- 
opened his writing-case when he saw Roden, and 
now came forward to hand him a written paper. 

“ That is a copy,” he said, “ of the telegram we 
have sent to Creil. He can come here and select 
what men he wants — the steady ones and the skilled 
workmen. With each man we will hand him a 
check in trust. The others can take their money — 
and go.” 

“And drink themselves to death as expeditiously 
as they think fit,” added Cornish, the philanthropist 
— the fashionable drawing-room champion of the 
masses. 

“ I got back here through the Wood,” said Percy 
Roden, who was still breathless, as if he had been 
hurrying. “ One of them, a Swede, came to warn me. 
They are looking for me in the town — a hundred 
and twenty of them, and not one who cares that ” — 
he paused and gave a snap of the fingers — “for his 
life or the law. Both railway stations are watched, 
and all the steamboat stations on the canals ; they 
will kill me if they catch me.” 

31 1 


RODEN’S CORNER 


His eyes wavered, for there is nothing more terri- 
fying than the avowed hostility of a mass of men, 
and no law grimmer than lynch-law. Yet he held 
up his head with a certain pride in his danger — some 
touch of that subtle sense of personal distinction 
which seems to reach the heart of the victim of an 
accident, or of a prisoner in the dock. 

“ If I had not met that Swede I should have gone 
on to the works, and they would have pulled me to 
pieces there,” continued Roden. “ I do not know 
how I am to get away from the Hague, or where I 
shall be safe in the whole world ; but the money 
is at Hamburg and Antwerp. The money is safe 
enough.” 

He gave a laugh and threw back his head. His 
hearers looked at him in a sort of wonder, and 
Mr. Wade alone understood his thoughts. For the 
banker had dealt with money-makers all his life, 
and knew that to many men money is a god, and 
the mere possession of it dearer to them than life 
itself. 

“If you stay here, in my room up -stairs,” said 
Cornish, “I shall go down to the works now. And 
this evening I will try and get you away from the 
Hague — and from Europe.” 

“And I shall go to the Villa des Dunes again,” 
added Dorothy, “and pack your things.” 

Marguerite had risen also, and was moving tow- 
ards the steps. 

“Where are you going?” asked her father. 

“To the Villa des Dunes,” she replied, and, turn- 
ing to Dorothy, added, “ I shall take some clothes 
and stay with you there until things straighten 
themselves out a bit.” 


312 


AT THE CORNER 


“ Why ?” 

“Because I cannot let you go there alone.” 

“Why not?” asked Dorothy. 

“ Because — I am not that sort,” said Marguerite, 
and, turning, she ascended the iron steps. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


ROUND THE CORNER 
“ Les heureux ne rient pas ; ils sourient ” 

Soon after Mr, Wade and Cornish had quitted 
their carriage, on that which is known as the New 
Scheveningen Road, and were walking across the 
dunes to the Malgamite works, they met a police- 
man running towards them, 

“ It is,” he answered, breathlessly, to their in- 
quiries — “it is the English chemical works on the 
dunes, which have caught fire. I am hurrying to 
the artillery station to telegraph for the fire-engines ; 
but it will be useless. It will all be over in half an 
hour — by this wind and after so much dry weather ; 
see the black smoke, Excellencies.” 

And the man pointed towards a column of smoke, 
blown out over the sand - hills by the strong wind 
characteristic of these flat coasts. Then, with a 
hurried salutation, he ran on. 

Cornish and Mr. Wade proceeded more leisurely 
on their way ; for the banker was not of a build to 
hurry even to a fire. Before they had gone far they 
perceived another man coming across the dunes 
towards the Hague. As he approached, Cornish 
recognized the man known as Uncle Ben. He was 
shambling along on unsteady legs, and carried his 
3H 


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earthly belongings in a canvas sack of doubtful 
cleanliness. The recognition was apparently mutu- 
al ; for Uncle Ben deviated from his path to come 
and speak to them. 

“It’s me, mister,” he said to Cornish, not disre- 
spectfully. “And I don’t mind tellin’ yer that I'm 
makin’ myself scarce. That place is gettin’ a bit too 
hot for me. They’re just pulling it down and makin’ 
a bonfire of it. And if you or Mr. Roden goes there 
they’ll just take and chuck yer on top of it — and 
that’s God’s truth. They’re a rough lot, some of 
them, and they don’t distinguish ’tween you and Mr. 
Roden like as I do. Soddim and Gomorrer, I say. 
Soddim and Gomorrer ! There won’t be nothin’ left 
of yer in half an hour.” And he turned and shook 
a dirty fist towards the rising smoke, which was all 
that remained of the Malgamite works. He hurried 
on a few paces, then stopped and laid down his bag. 
He ran back, calling out “ Mister !” as he neared 
Cornish and Mr. Wade. “ I don’t mind telling yer,” 
he said to Cornish, with a ludicrous precautionary 
look round the deserted dunes, to make sure that he 
would not be overheard ; for he was sober, and con- 
sequently stupid — “ I don’t mind telling yer — see- 
ing as I’m makin’ myself scarce, and for the sake o’ 
Miss Roden, who has always been a good friend to 
me — as there’s a hundred and twenty of ’em looking 
for Mr. Roden at this minute, meanin’ to twist his 
neck ; and what’s worse, there’s others — men of eddi- 
cation like myself — who has gone to the authorities 
to get a warrant out against him for false pretences, 
or murder, or something. And they’ll get it, too, 
with the story they’ve got to tell, and them poor 
devils planted thick as taters in the cheap corner 
3i5 


RODEN’S CORNER 

of the cemetry. I’ve warned yer, mister.” Uncle 
Ben expectorated with much emphasis, looked tow- 
ards the Malgamite works with a dubious shake of 
the head, and went on his way, muttering, “Soddim 
and Gomorrer.” 

His hearers walked on over the sand-hills towards 
the smoke, of which the pungent odor, still faintly 
suggestive of sealing - wax, reached their nostrils. 
At the top of a high dune, surmounted with con- 
siderable difficulty, Mr. Wade stopped. Cornish 
stood beside him, and from that point of vantage 
rhey saw the last of the Malgamite works. Amid 
the flames and smoke the forms of men flitted hither 
and thither, adding fuel to the fire. 

“ They are, at all events, doing the business thor- 
oughly,” said the banker. “ And there is nothing 
to be gained by our disturbing them at it — and a 
good deal to be lost — namely, our lives. There is 
nothing heroic about me, Tony. Let us go back.” 

But Mr. Wade returned to the Hague alone ; for 
Cornish had matters of importance requiring his at- 
tention. It was now doubly necessary to get Roden 
safely away from Holland, and with the necessity 
increased the difficulty. For Holland is a small 
country, well watched, highly civilized. Cornish 
knew that it would be next to impossible for Roden 
to leave the country by rail or road. There re- 
mained, therefore, the sea. Cornish had, during his 
sojourn at the humble “ Swan,” at Scheveningen, 
made certain friends there. And it was to the old 
village under the dunes, little known to visitors, and 
a place apart from the fashionable bathing resort, 
that he went in his difficulty. He spent nearly the 
whole day in these narrow streets ; indeed, he 
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lunched at the “ Swan ” in company of a seafaring 
gentleman clad in soft blue flannel, and addicted to 
the mediaeval coiffure still affected in certain parts 
of Zeeland. 

From this quiet retreat Cornish also wrote a note 
to Dorothy at the Villa des Dunes, informing her 
of Roden’s new danger, and warning her not to at- 
tempt to communicate with her brother, or even 
send him his baggage. In the afternoon Cornish 
made a few purchases, which he duly packed in a sail- 
or’s kit-bag, and at nightfall Roden arrived on foot. 

The weather was squally, as it often is in August 
on these coasts ; indeed, the summer seemed to have 
come to an end before its time. 

“ It is raining like the deuce,” said Roden, “and I 
am wet through, though I came under the trees of 
the Oude Weg.” 

He spoke with his usual suggestion of a grievance, 
which made Cornish answer him rather curtly. 

“We shall be wetter before we get on board.” 

It was raining when they quitted the modest 
“ Swan,” and hurried through the sparsely lighted, 
winding streets. Cornish had borrowed two oil- 
skin coats and caps, which at once disguised them 
and protected them from the rain. Any passer-by 
would have taken them for a couple of fishermen 
going about their business. But there were few in 
the streets. 

“Why are you doing all this for me?” asked Ro- 
den, suddenly. 

“ To avoid a scandal,” replied Cornish, truthfully 
enough ; for he had been brought up in a school 
where the longevity of scandal is thoroughly under- 
stood. 


3U 


RODEN’S CORNER 


The wide stretch of sand was entirely deserted 
when they emerged from the narrow streets and 
gained the summit of the sea - wall. A thunder- 
storm was growling in the distance, and every mo- 
ment a flash of thin summer lightning shimmered 
on the horizon. The wind was strong, as it nearly 
always is here, and a shallow white surf stretched 
seaward across the flats. The sea roared continu- 
ously, without that rise and fall of the breakers 
which marks a deeper coast, and from the face of 
the water there arose a filmy mist — part foam, part 
phosphorescence. 

As Roden and Cornish passed the little light- 
house two policemen emerged from the shadow of 
the wall and watched them, half suspiciously. 

“ Good-evening,” said one of them. 

“ Good-evening,” answered Cornish, mimicking the 
singsong accent of the Scheveningen streets. 

They walked on in silence. 

“ Gad !” ejaculated Roden, when the danger 
seemed to be past, and they could breathe again. 

They went down a flight of steps to the beach 
and stumbled across the soft sand towards the sea. 
One or two boats were lying out in the surf — heavy 
Dutch fishing-boats, known technically as “pinks,” 
flat-bottomed, round-prowed, keelless — heavy and 
ungainly vessels, but strong as wood and iron and 
good workmanship could make them. Some seemed 
to be afloat, others bumped heavily and continuous- 
ly, while a few lay stolidly on the ground with the 
waves breaking right over them as over rocks. 

The noise of the sea was so great that Cornish 
touched his companion’s arm and pointed, without 
speaking, to one of the vessels where a light twinkled 
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feebly through the spray breaking over her. It 
seemed to be the only vessel preparing to go to sea 
on the high tide, and, in truth, the weather looked 
anything but encouraging. 

“How are we going to get on board?” shouted 
Roden, amid the roar of the waves. 

“Walk,” answered Cornish, and he led the way 
into the sea. Hampered as they were by their heavy 
oil-skins, their progress was slow, although the water 
barely reached their knees. The Three Brothers was 
bumping when they reached her and clambered on 
board over the bluff sides, sticky with salt water 
and tar. 

“She’ll be afloat in ten minutes,” said a man in 
oil-skins, who helped them over the low bulwarks. 
He spoke good English, and seemed to have learned 
some of the taciturnity of the seafaring portion of 
that nation with their language ; for he went aft to 
the tiller without more words, and took his station 
there. 

Roden seated himself on the rail and looked back 
towards Scheveningen. Cornish stood beside him in 
silence. The spray broke over them continuously, 
and the boat rolled and bumped in such a manner 
that it was impossible to stand or even sit without 
holding on to the clumsy rigging. 

The lights of Scheveningen were stretched out in 
a line before them ; the light-house winked a glaring 
eye that seemed to stare over their heads far out to 
sea. The summer lightning showed the sands to be 
bare and deserted. There were no unusual lights on 
the sea-wall. The Kurhaus and the hotels were illu- 
minated and gay. The shore took no heed of the 
sea to-night. 

319 


RODEN’S CORNER 


“We’ve succeeded,’’ said Roden, curtly ; and quite 
suddenly he rolled over in a faint at Cornish’s feet. 

The next morning Dorothy received a letter at the 
Villa des Dunes, posted the evening before by Cor- 
nish at Scheveningen. 

“ We hope to get away to-night,” he wrote, “ in 
the ‘ pink ’ the Three Brothers. Our intention is to 
knock about the North Sea until we find a suitable 
vessel — either a sailing-ship trading between Norway 
and Spain on its way south, or a steamer going di- 
rect from Hamburg to South America. When I have 
seen your brother safely on board one of these ves- 
sels, I shall return in the Three Brothers to Scheven- 
ingen. She is a small boat and has a large white 
patch of new canvas at the top of her mainsail. So 
if you see her coming in, or waiting for the tide, you 
may conclude that your brother is in safety.” 

Later in the day Mr. Wade called, having driven 
from the Hague very comfortably in an open car- 
riage with a large cigar. 

“The house,” he said, placidly, “is still watched, 
but I have no doubt that Tony has outwitted them 
all. Creil arrived last night, and seems a capable 
man. He tells me that half of the Malgamiters are 
in jail at the Hague for intoxication and uproarious- 
ness last night. He is selecting those he wants, and 
the rest he will send to their homes. So we are bal- 
ancing our affairs very comfortably — and if there is 
anything I can do for you, Miss Roden, I am at your 
command.” 

“ Oh, Dorothy is all right,” said Marguerite, rather 
hurriedly ; and when her father took his leave she 
slipped her hand within his solid arm and walked 
with him across the sand towards the carriage. 

320 


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“ Haven’t you seen,” she asked — “you old stupid ! 
— that Dorothy is all right ? Tony is in love with 
her.” 

“ No,” replied the banker, rather humbly. “ No, 
my dear. I am afraid I had not noticed it.” 

Marguerite pressed his arm, not unkindly. “You 
can’t help it,” she explained. “You are only a man, 
you know.” 

The following days were quiet enough at the Villa 
des Dunes, and it is in quiet days that a friendship 
ripens best. The two girls left there scarcely ex- 
pected to hear of Cornish’s return for some days ; 
but they fell into the habit of walking towards the 
sea whenever they went out-of-doors, and spent 
many afternoon hours on the dunes. During these 
hours Dorothy had many confidential and lively con- 
versations with her new-found friend. Indeed, con- 
fidence and gayety were so bewilderingly mingled 
that Dorothy did not always understand her. 

One afternoon, three days after the departure of 
Percy Roden, when Von Holzen was buried, and the 
authorities had expressed themselves content with 
the verdict that he had come accidentally by his 
death, Marguerite took occasion to congratulate 
herself, and all concerned, on the fact that what she 
vaguely called “things ” were beginning to straight- 
en themselves out. 

“ We are round the corner,” she said, decisively. 
“And now papa and I shall go home again, and Miss 
Williams will come back. Miss Williams — oh, lor ! 
She is one of those women who have a poker inside 
them instead of a heart. You know* the sort, Doro- 
thy. They live for moral appearances — presumably 
because all other appearances have long ceased to 

x 321 


RODEN’S CORNER 


live for them. And papa will invite his young men 
— likely young men from the City. Papa married 
the bank, you know. And he wants me to marry 
another bank, and live gorgeously ever afterwards. 
Poor old dear !” 

“I think he would rather you were happy than 
gorgeous,” said Dorothy, who had seen some of the 
honest banker’s perplexity with regard to this most 
delicate financial affair. 

“ Perhaps he would. At all events, he does his 
best — his level best. He has tried at least fifty of 
these gentle swains since I came back from Dresden 
— red hair and a temper, black hair and an excellent 
opinion of one’s self, fair hair and stupidity. But 
they wouldn’t do — they wouldn’t do, Dorothy !” 

Marguerite paused, and made a series of holes in 
the sand with her walking-stick. 

“ There was only one,” she said, quietly, at length. 
“ I suppose there is always — only one — for women, 
eh, Dorothy?” 

“ I suppose so,” answered Dorothy, looking straight 
in front of her. 

Marguerite was silent for a while, looking out to 
sea with a queer little twist of the lips that made her 
look older — almost a woman. One could imagine 
what she would be like when she was middle-aged, 
or quite old perhaps. 

“ He would have done,” she said. “Quite easily, 
hands down. He was a million times cleverer than the 
rest — a million times . . . well, he was quite differ- 
ent, I don’t know how. But he was paternal. He 
thought he was much too old, so he didn’t try — ” 

She broke off with a light laugh, and her confiden- 
tial manner was gone in a flash. She stuck her 
322 







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“ ‘ BLESS YOU, MY DEARS !’ 


SHE CRIED 



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stick firmly into the ground, and threw herself back 
on the soft sand. 

“ So !” she cried, gayly. “ Vogue la galere ! It’s 
all for the best. That is the right thing to say when 
it cannot be helped and it obviously isn’t for the 
best. But everybody says it, and it is always wise to 
pass in with the crowd and be conventional — if you 
swing for it.” 

She broke off suddenly, looking at her companion’s 
face. A few boats had been leisurely making for the 
shore all the afternoon before a light wind, and Dor- 
othy had been watching them. They were coming 
closer now. 

“ Dorothy, do you see the Three Brothers ?" 

“ That is the Three Brothers ,” answered Dorothy, 
pointing with her walking-stick. 

For a time they were silent, until, indeed, the boat 
with the patched sail had taken the ground gently, a 
few yards from the shore. A number of men landed 
from her, some of them carrying baskets of fish. 
One, walking apart, made for the dunes, in the direc- 
tion of the New Scheveningen Road. 

“And that is Tony,” said Marguerite. “I should 
know his walk — if I saw him coming out of the Ark, 
which, by the way, must have been rather like the 
Three Brothers to look at. He has taken your broth- 
er safely away, and now he is coming — to take you.” 

“He may remember that I am Percy’s sister,” 
suggested Dorothy. 

“ It doesn’t matter whose sister you are,” was the 
decisive reply. “ Nothing matters — ” Marguerite 
rose slowly, and shook the sand from her dress. 
“ Nothing matters — except one thing, and that ap- 
pears to be a matter of absolute chance.” 

323 


RODEN’S CORNER 

She climbed slowly to the summit of the dune 
under which they had been sitting, and there, paus- 
ing, she looked back. She nodded gayly down at 
Dorothy. Then suddenly she held out her hands 
before her, and Cornish, looking up, saw her slim 
young form poised against the sky in a mock atti- 
tude of benediction. 

“ Bless you, my dears !” she cried, and with a light 
laugh turned and walked towards the Villa des 
Dunes. 


THE END 


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